


Endurance and the Whipping Boy

by taoroo



Series: The Bonds of Brotherhood [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Hurt/Comfort, I am a bad person, M/M, Spanking, Whipping, Whump, many feels, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoroo/pseuds/taoroo
Summary: A new captain takes over the Musketeers, signaling a reign of terror for the four inseparables. A personal grudge spells trouble for their youngest, Charles, but what can his brothers do to protect him?This story follows on from Maintaining the Trust.





	1. Chapter 1

The four inseparables stood to attention in what had formerly been Treville’s office. Having discovered who their new captain was now to be only a few moments before, they managed admirably to contain their horrified dismay, knowing that the man who now sat before them would treat any sign of defiance as a deadly insult.

“You men were charged with the pursuit and apprehension of monsieur de’Treville,” said their new captain, his tone cool and contemptuous. “Not only did you fail in that mission, but I am suspect that you aided the traitor in his escape.”

“Alleged.”

Captain Henri d'Melliuor’s head snapped to Athos, regarding him with narrowed eyes. “Repeat yourself, monsieur.”

Athos took a breath, straightening under the man’s scrutiny. “Alleged traitor, sir. The charges against Cap— _monsieur_ Treville are as yet unsubstantiated.”

Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan looked sidelong at their commander, suppressing the grins that his deliberate slip had prompted. They maintained their stances, however. Athos’ position in the Musketeers was such that he could get away with a small amount of insubordination, but they were not fools enough to believe themselves free to speak as they wished. D’Artagnan in particular was eager to profess his Captain’s innocence, but kept his mouth closed. The mission depended on the suspect nature of Treville’s departure, and antagonising the hated marquis would do nothing to help their Captain’s cause.

“Treville is suspected of aiding and spying for the Spanish,” d’Melliuor said with obvious delight at the statement. “His desertion of his duty and flight to enemy lands implicates his guilt.” He leant back in Treville’s chair. “Do not speak without permission, Private.”

 _Well, that wasn’t a surprise._ Athos’ demotion had been inevitable the moment they had discovered their new Captain’s identity. At least their friend had not let the opportunity go to waste.

To the side, reclining against the windowsill, Lieutenant Jussac gave a small cough, which did nothing to hide his laughter. He was lately of the Red Guard, recruited by d’Melliuor into the Musketeers, and likely to be the recipient of Athos’ position as second in command. He stank of hair oil and stale sweat.

“As for your failure in the mission, I see no choice but to dispense suitable punishment,” d’Melliuor said with no trace of the reluctance his words may have implied. “Since you cannot be trusted in the simples of missions, you are restricted to the barracks until further notice. The privilege of residing outside these walls shall be returned to you once I have determined your loyalty. You shall report to the stablemaster for duties more suited to your abilities.”

Resigned, the four musketeers saluted and made to take their leave, relieved that their punishment contained only a little humiliation despite the man’s reputation.

“Hold, d’Artagnan,” the Captain said, halting the four.

D’Artagnan returned to his position with a smart salute, offering d’Melliuor no chance to take offence.

“Sir?” he asked respectfully.

D’Melliuor took up a sheet of paper from Treville’s desk, regarding it with scrutiny. “My instructions were for your seniors,” he said, his eyes not leaving the page. “A matter has come to my attention, a serious oversight which must be corrected.”

Athos watched the captain with a sinking feeling to his gut. He and his brothers exchanged quick enquiring glances, but could not fathom where the man’s thoughts were headed.

“How old are you, private?”

D’Artagnan’s brow creased in confusion. “Sir?”

D’Melliuor looked up, fixing the boy with a cool glare. “Your age, private. When did the Lord see fit to bless us with your birth?”

D’Artagnan’s cheeks pinkened at the insult but he answered with calm civility: “I was born on June twenty-fifth, sixteen-oh-seven, sir.”

Athos closed his eyes as horror overcame him. Beside him he heard Aramis suppress a small groan and Porthos’ whisper a question in response.

“You are, in fact, not yet twenty years of age?”

“Not for another month, sir, no.”

D’Artagnan still looked confused. _As well he might be_ , Athos pressed his lips together, cursing his lack of foresight. _Damn. Damn, damn, damn it all._

D’Melliuor gave a nasty smile, setting down the paper and placing his palm over it. “I take it, you are unaware that men of the Musketeers must be over the age of twenty-one before they are permitted admittance?”

D’Artagnan’s eye widened in shocked dismay, and beside Athos, Porthos snarled an alarmed curse.

“It is a rule that dates back to the founding of our order,” d’Melliuor continued. “Whilst it has been allowed some leeway in years past, particularly in times of war, I can only see this as another example of Treville’s remarkable lack of control.”

D’Artagnan made a strangled noise. His face was a greenish-white, his hands still behind him curled into fists. “I… was unaware, captain,” he muttered sickly.

“Captain, if I might speak—” Athos tried.

“You might not,” d’Melliuor cut him off gleefully. He paused, likely to draw out the tension of the room like nails down the chalkboard of their nerves.

“It is my duty to correct my predecessor’s shameful mistakes. Yet I do not see any purpose in punishing you for your ignorance, or disgracing the king who elevated you to this role. I believe a rank not employed here for some time will provide you with suitable employ, until the time you come of age, cadet.”

It was painful to see the desperate mixture of relief and shame on the boy’s face. Athos bit the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted copper. _So this was how the bastard would get his revenge_.

D’Artagnan bowed his head low, his hair hiding his flaming face.

“You have my thanks, captain.”

D’Melliuor’s smile was unpleasantly and unconvincingly benevolent. “You have by accounts the making of a serviceable soldier, cadet. It is a shame that you have been so led astray. I suggest that you chose your company with more care in future. In future you shall report to Commander Jussac for duty.”

“Captain, Athos is my mentor…” d’Artagnon began miserably.

“Monsieur Athos has proven himself unworthy of such a role, cadet,” d’Melliuor said crisply. He took up his quill and pulled a ledger toward him. It was dusty and cracked with age, apparently unused in many years. Half of its sleeve was taken up with the stubs of pages, ripped out. Printed words could be seen on the remaining pages, spaces between them filled by d’Melliuor’s scratching script. The silence of the room was oppressive as the four waited for dismissal.

When he was done, d’Melliuor tore the page from the ledger and held it out toward d’Artagnan. “I have altered your punishment taking your new position into consideration. Present this to the Quartermaster at once.”

D’Artagnan took the paper, giving it a cursory glance. His eyes froze on the words, his mouth opening as if to protest, but after a moment it snapped closed and he saluted smartly.

“Charles…” Aramis murmured as the boy made his leave, skirting the man’s hand as he made to place it comfortingly upon his shoulder. Athos ignored them both, his eyes fixed upon d’Melliuor in impotent rage. He had not read the paper, but he could guess its contents, and the purpose of the ledger.

“Do not let me detain you, gentlemen,” d’Melliuor said, taking up his quill once more and turning his attention upon his papers.

“Sir, I must protest,” Athos ground out.

“Do not make me repeat myself, private.”

“The boy has done nothing wrong,” Athos persisted, his voice shaking with rage. He felt Aramis’ hand on his arm but ignored the warning. “He does not deserve to be shamed so.”

“I remember a time not long ago where you considered such a punishment fitting for the boy,” the Captain said coolly, not taking his eyes from the page.

“That was different.”

“How so?”

Athos floundered. He knew the man had a point, but how could he explain the difference between beating the boy and a loving chastisement, dealt out by a friend.

A snort behind him signalled the Lieutenant Jussac’s inclusion in the conversation. “Maybe that was more for _private Athos’_ benefit,” he said, his words a sticky purr that made Athos’ fists itch.

“Do not be unseemly, Commander,” d’Melliuor reproached without true heat to his words.

“Beg pardon, my lord.”

 _My lord_ , Athos noted with an internal sneer. _Filthy bottom-feeding reacher_.

Further argument was paused by a knock on the Captain’s door. At the summons, Gauthier entered.

The old quartermaster was a musketeer of advancing age and worthy reputation. Known to be hard yet fair he maintained the armoury with military precision, and woe betide the musketeer who returned a sword to him blunted by a lazy swing. Despite this, the man was unusually hesitant. He held d’Artagnan’s paper in his hand.

“What is it, man?”

“Begging your pardon, captain,” Gauthier said. “Only I was hoping for some confirmation, about this here letter.”

“Is there some part of the instruction which is unclear?” d’Melliuor asked coldly.

“Well, it’s only that…” Gauthier said, the room’s atmosphere was making the old man nervous. “I thought it best come check…”

“—If you are incapable of following a simple instruction, I must judge you unfit for your position.”

Gauthier blinked. He was not a slow-witted man, but he had never been good at politics. “I didn’t say that, sir—” Athos ground his teeth together, cursing the marquis to the devil.

“You are relived of your position, monsieur,” d’Melliuor said, returning to his papers without giving the man a second glance. “Give Jussac the orders and report to the cook for your duties. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Speechless, his face grey, Gauthier looked down as Jussac took the note from his unresisting hand.

Knowing it was useless to argue further, or face more of the captain’s ire, Athos took a gentle hold of the now-former quartermaster’s arm, and led the old man out onto the balcony. Aramis followed them, a tight grip on Porthos’ arm to prevent the man’s rage from overflowing.

“ _What the fuck_?!” Porthos hissed as the door shut.

Aramis raised a finger to his lips and the four waited. A moment later there was the sound of Jussac laughing from inside and then the door opened, the man stepping out. Ginning blithely at them, the commander walked past, his shoulder knocking into Athos as he did so. They watched him without comment as he skipped down the stairs, heading toward the armoury without a backward glance.

“I only wanted to know if he was joking,” Gauthier said miserably, looking down at his boots.

Aramis patted the old musketeer’s shoulder gently. “Alas not, my friend,” he said, his tone falsely jovial. “I’m afraid to confirm that the man is quite mad.”

“What was on that slip, ‘thier?” Porthos rumbled, his eyes flared with the promise of murder.

Athos could understand but had not the energy to call up such emotion in himself, despair and a desperate need for wine turning his throat raw. He didn’t want to hear the old musketeer’s reply, knowing that Jussac would not go easily on the boy, but he listened anyway.

“Short penance,” Gauthier mumbled. The old man had deflated since his demotion, his back sagging where it was once proudly taught, his cheeks sunken and eyes greyed.

“What’s that mean?” Porthos pushed.

“ “The contrite boy is laid upon a long bench, face foremost, his breeches and smallclothes removed”,” Athos quoted, his voice unrecognisable even to himself. He cursed his old, bored self for reading the ancient rules of military law, back in the days when he was alone at the garrison, before making his three brothers’ acquaintance. “ “The birch – first wettened to prevent breakage – is then laid upon the buttocks for twelve strokes. Should full penance be ordered, this is repeated upon the hands, upper back, thighs, calves and soles of the feet.”.”

There was a long silence.

“ _Merde_ ,” Aramis hissed.

“We gotta stop that bastard Jussac,” Porthos said. He was prevented from rushing forward by a hand on his chest.

“If we interfere it will only be worse for him,” Athos said, his voice deadpan. “He is already suffering in our place, I will not be the cause of more.”

“Then what _do_ we do?” Aramis asked.

They looked at him, his brothers, and for once Athos had no satisfactory reply.

“We endure. Treville will return. In the mean time we tread carefully and do all in our power to keep the boy safe. D’Melliuor believes Charles to be the weakness in our armour and he will not hesitate to strike should we expose it. We must act to the best of our abilities to be exemplary musketeers, beyond reproach, for his sake, if not ours.”

Aramis and Porthos remained silent for a good while, digesting Athos’ words. Then, as one, they nodded.

“I’ll go prepare some salve,” Aramis said, his head lowered as he trotted away.

“Better report to Dufour in the stables,” Porthos growled, avoiding Athos’ eye as he trod heavily down the steps. Gauthier followed behind to head to the kitchens, the old man’s pace slow and defeated.

Athos took a steadying breath and made his way to the courtyard. He would report to his duties soon, but before that he headed for the armoury. He might not be able to keep his little brother from harm this time, but he would make damn sure to be there when the boy needed him, to offer what comfort he could.

It would take a month at least before Treville returned from his mission, should the plan go without complication. All the Musketeers could do until then was endure.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It took longer for the door to open after the knock than it should have done. The three inseparables crowded into d’Artagnan’s room with little decorum, allowing the door to be shut quickly behind them.

“You did not need to come,” their friend said. “I am… it was not so bad.”

“ _Mon ami_ , you are a poor liar,” Aramis said, stepping forward and gripping the boy about the nape, his eyes softly boring into d’Artagnan’s own.

D’Artagnan’s eyes were red and swollen, and his body sagged with fatigue. “Truly, it was nothing so serious,” he protested weakly, then looked away. “I wouldn’t be affected by such a child’s punishment,” he said bitterly.

“It’s a crying bloody shame,” Porthos rumbled.

Athos said nothing. He had been denied in his quest to comfort Charles in the immediate aftermath of his whipping by the loathsome Jussac, who had sent the boy on his duties without allowing him even a short reprieve. Seeing his young brother walk stiffly, yet with his head still held up in pride, had cut Athos’ heart to the quick.

“Come, lie on the bed and let me see you wounds,” Aramis was saying, attempting to lead d’Artagnan toward his cot.

“Aramis, please,” the boy said, standing his ground with a shake of his head. His cheeks were flushed with mortification.

“We’ve seen your red arse before, whelp, or had you forgotten?” Porthos said with a strained chuckle. “Let doctor Aramis look before he has a fit.”

“You should listen to your brothers, _petit_ Gascon,” Aramis said with a smile, “I can be quite insistent, you know.”

With a huff, and still muttering objections, d’Artagnan allowed himself to be manhandled to the bed. He refused help with his breeches however, easing them and his smalls down with a grimace that prompted murmurs of compassion from the pair. When he turned to lay on the bed, exposing his rear to them for the first time since his punishment, Aramis could not help the muted sound of pain that escaped him. Porthos turned away, fists clenched and teeth bared.

The boy lay upon the bed, his folded arms upon the pillow, chin cradled atop them.

“I must clean some of these before I apply the salve,” Aramis said. He spoke in the disconnected, business-like tone that Athos well recognised as his attempt to distance himself from wounds in his brothers, which would otherwise prompt a more distressed response and render him incapable of performing his duty. He rinsed out a cloth in d’Artagnan’s washbowl and began to dab at the cuts.

Despite himself, d’Artagnan gave a hiss and squirmed upon the bed, bravely fighting to stay still. He looked up in surprise when firm but gentle hands rested upon his shoulders, staring into Athos’ reassuring blue eyes as the man knelt beside him.

Athos gave him a gentle smile and a nod, conveying to the boy as best he could how proud he was of him.

“When this is all over, I am going to put my sword through d’Melliuor’s throat,” Aramis said in conversational tones as he worked. D’Artagnan’s backside was a mess of angry welts, deep enough in many places to have broken the skin, where the birch branches had overlapped. What Jussac lacked in care he had evidently made up for in force.

“Get in line,” Porthos rumbled.

D’Artagnan was sweating, despite the room being cool. Athos broke his gaze briefly to direct Porthos toward the fireplace with a nod. He smoothed away some stands of hair from the boy’s brow, his hand remaining upon d’Artagnan’s cheek when he was done.

“I didn’t cry,” d’Artagnan mumbled, his eyes hooded with weariness. “He wanted me to, but I didn’t make a sound.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Athos said with a proud smile. “You are a Musketeer.”

D’Artagnan’s face fell. “You mean, a cadet,” he said, his voice heavy with bitter self-reproach. “…I didn’t mean to lie, Athos, I promise you.”

“The rules d’Melliuor adheres to are archaic,” Athos said firmly. “There have been dozens of young recruits in the past few decades. They are a guideline, nothing more. When Treville returns you shall be reinstated.”

The revelation of their brother’s age had come as no small shock to Athos, however. Though he knew the boy was young, it had not occurred to him that he could be so young as to be not only Athos’ brother, but also his _son_. If he did not know better that d’Artagnan was too honourable to lie about such matters, he would have been angry with the boy. Charles would not have even considered the need for deception in regards to his age, no matter whether he was not yet twenty, or even twenty-five, he would have been striving to prove himself equal to his peers. The distance between nineteen and twenty-one was not so great as his own perceived distance between himself and his fellow inseparables.

“We just have to get that far,” Aramis said calmly. He lay down the cloth and began with the salve, dabbing it as gently as he could against the broken flesh.

D’Artagnan whined and caught his lip between his teeth against the sting. He buried his head into his arms.

Athos placed a hand upon the boy’s hair, stroking his locks as he met eyes with Porthos. They were in agreement, d’Melliuor would die by their hands when this was over – unpleasantly if they had their way.

“We must continue with our mission with the utmost care,” he said, opting for the comfort of duty. “Treville’s life is in danger every moment until his return to Paris, from the Spaniards should he be exposed, and our own forces until his name is cleared. For our part, we must continue the search for the true spy, without prompting any suspicion from them. Our failure to capture Treville as ordered may even draw them to contact us.”

“Not if we are known to them,” Aramis pointed out. “If so they will likely guess our failure stemmed from our filial bonds with the captain, not any sympathy with Spain.”

“The spy is likely a Musketeer or a Red Guard,” Porthos pointed out what the four already knew. “Either way, Aramis is right.”

“We can only do our best,” Athos said with a sigh. “In any rate d’Melliuor has given us an excuse to be poking around the garrison.”

“I can check the dormitories,” d’Artagnan said, lifting his head. He wiped his sweating brow upon his arms, resting it there as he stared at the pillow below. “Jussac has me cleaning them each morning and emptying the fireplaces.”

Athos tried to stop himself from painfully clenching the boy’s hair. Mucking the stables out that afternoon had damaged his own pride a little, but putting d’Artagnan to work like a common servant was a disgrace.

“We shall see this as the opportunity it is,” he said through gritted teeth. “Jussac and d’Melliuor are the only ones whose honour suffers for this.” He said it firmly, daring them to object.

“We must take care,” Aramis prompted. He sat back, his task done, wiping his hands upon a cloth. “D’Melliuor likely blames us all for his previous disgrace. His father cannot protect us this time, not if Henri acts within the bounds of his office.”

“Meaning we don’t do any stupid shit that gives him an excuse to hurt us,” Porthos rumbled. He looked at d’Artagnan, his eyes softening with care. “—to hurt _you_ , whelp.”

D’Artagnan nodded, taking a steady breath as he carefully drew his smalls up over his injuries. He knelt up upon the bed, resting his hands upon his knees to steady himself.

“I promise I’ll do nothing to provoke d’Melliuor,” he said, fixing all three with a solemn smile. “But please, do not worry about me. The punishment is unpleasant, I admit, but I won’t die from a whipping. Exposing the traitor must be our main priority, regardless of what it costs me.”

The three musketeers looked at their younger brother in stunned silence. Then Athos strode forwards, sitting heavily on the cot beside the boy before snatching him up into a tight embrace. His hand roughly grasped the back of d’Artagnan’s head, pressing his brow to his shoulder as the other gripped the fabric of his shirt tightly.

“And d’Melliuor thinks you too young,” Aramis chuckled. “Well said, _petit_ Musketeer.”

Porthos slapped the boy’s back heartily. “We’ll get the bugger,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “and when we do we’ll swing on his bloody legs when he dances in hemp.”

Athos said nothing, but hugged the boy tighter as he felt his shoulder grow damp with the boy’s tears.


	3. Chapter 3

“You stink of horse,” Porthos complained, wrinkling his nose at Athos.

“Not all of us can be so occupied within the laundry,” the man replied dryly from over the lip of his wineglass. “How fares your stitching? Any improvement?”

Porthos grunted sourly, hiding his hand – which bore several needle gouges to the fingers – behind his back.

“My poor maids,” Aramis said with a mock-sorrowful shake of his head. “Truly your vocations in life have been missed.”

“A pity there is only one grindstone,” d’Artagnan said, taking a swig of his wine. “But then you’d run out of swords before the end of the week.”

Aramis twisted his mouth into a pout at that. He detested getting dirty and sweating thanks to such an un-glamourous and mindless duty. D’Melliuor had chosen each of their penance’s well to most poorly suit their tastes. Seeing proud Athos drudging in the stables was the worst of it, but watching poor Porthos struggling to manipulate a needle along a line of delicate cloth almost made up for it.

It had been a week since the new captain’s instatement, and it had been a long, boring one. They had hardly seen d’Artagnan, whose duties had been reduced to that of a squire, running onerous errands for Jussac when he was not set to near endless training upon the fields. The boy was exhausted, but maintained a happy façade.

Their time had not past idly, however; each man managing to conduct their investigation throughout the course of their duties. D’Artagnan in particular had succeeded in snooping through a good number of their brothers’ effects, thanks to his menial labour within their rooms, but had so far found nothing incriminating.

They made efforts to meet each night to swap information and unwind from their long days, though it did not go unnoticed that d’Artagnan would routinely fall asleep over his glass before the tenth bell. Their restriction to the barracks had been lifted that night and all four had been eager to leave the stifling confinement of their home.

Porthos was in the middle of a long and vulgar joke when the four were interrupted by another.

Antionne d’Melliuor, lately elevated to the position of lieutenant, came to a halt, standing nervously before their table.

“Lieutenant, care for a wine?” Aramis offered. Despite the boy’s parentage, they bore Antionne no ill-will. Since his misadventure with d’Artagnan some months prior, the young musketeer had been much altered; polite and quiet, but not withdrawn. Gaspard in particular had found himself a dutiful pupil, his actions against the boy seeming to have engendered respect rather than hostility. Though they had not discussed it with him, it seemed his father’s position, and his own elevation in the ranks were a point of disquiet for Antionne.

The boy shook his head politely at the offer. “I must decline, thank you.”

“What’s up, lad?” Porthos enquired, tilting his head back to scrutinise him from under his hat. “You look right miserable.”

Antionne took a breath. “I have come for monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, indeed looking miserable.

Three pairs of eyes fixed upon the young Gascon.

“What you do, whelp?” Porthos asked, his tone lightly teasing.

“Me?” d’Artagnan shook his head, not even needing to affect false sincerity. “Nothing.”

“My men are outside,” Antionne continued. He dropped his voice so that their conversation did not reach the other tables and prying ears. “I have been ordered to return with you to the garrison immediately… You are under arrest.”

“ _What?_ ” Aramis snapped.

“On what charge?” Athos asked, his voice a deadly growl.

“Desertion will be the official charge,” said Antionne with distaste. “Monsieur d’Artagnan failed to report for his guard duty this evening.”

“I had no such duty!” d’Artagnan protested angrily.

Athos placed a calming hand upon his young brother’s arm. “Did you check the board before you came to meet us?” he asked quietly.

The notice board at the garrison held a list of the daily duties for each musketeer, posted each day before the change in guard at six in the morning and at night. In Treville’s time it was hardly used, each man knowing his daily routine and informed as to changes by Treville personally. The new captain, however, maintained the board with ruthless efficiency.

“Of course,” d’Artagnan snorted. “I checked it as I was leaving at six,” he paused, his tone becoming unsure, “…almost six …a few minutes before perhaps…”

Athos closed his eyes and Aramis groaned as Porthos slapped his forehead with a meaty palm. None would put it past d’Melliuor to wait until the precise moment to post the new orders, with the very intention of catching out an unwary man eager to leave the garrison after a week’s detention. They had played right into the captain’s hands.

“I was not on duty on the morning roster,” d’Artagnan said miserably.

“But you were on this evening’s,” Antionne said gently, his tone conciliatory. “I’m sorry, Charles.”

The informal use of his first name surprised the boy and he looked up at Antionne with a grateful, if pallid smile. “Thank you for coming for me in this manner,” he said. “I know you could have been a sight more heavy-handed.”

“I owe you a debt of gratitude, monsieur,” Antionne said with a bow. “It is frankly the least I could do.”

D’Artagnan stood, draining his glass and then donning his hat with a heavy sigh. “Let us get this over with, then.”

Aramis leapt up, snatching his hat. “We should go too, we could explain—”

“You know it’ll do no good, ‘mis,” Porthos growled.

“Porthos is right, my friend,” Athos said with a shake of his head. “We would only cause more trouble for our young runaway.”

There was a soft reprimand in the man’s joke that d’Artagnan took with a solemn nod. It was his own error that had put him in this situation, at the very time he had promised Athos to act with care. The fault was legitimate, even if it was unjust. He would face the consequences with dignity and without excuses.

Aramis squeezed d’Artagnan’s arm, giving the boy an encouraging smile. “We shall be along shortly, _mon ami_ , have courage.”

Antionne bowed to the three and then led d’Artagnan out.

The inseparables stayed as they were for a long moment, broken as Athos smashed his fist upon the table.

“ _Damn!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooh snap!


	4. Chapter 4

“Well?”

Aramis shook off the water from his hat before casting it upon the table. A light rain had been falling since before dawn, casting a miserable atmosphere about the unusually quiet barracks.

They were in Athos’ room, Athos and Porthos waiting for their brother to bring back news of their youngest. D’Artagnan had been held in the barrack’s small prison since his return – an unnecessary act designed to elicit shame. Visitors had not been allowed.

“Full Penance,” Aramis said bitterly, folding his arms across his chest, his hands gripping his upper arms tightly. “In the courtyard at noon.”

“He’s gonna put him on show?” Porthos snarled incredulously. When Aramis did not speak, clearly too overcome with anger to do so, Porthos instead turned and punched the wall hard.

“ _Bastard_.”

“Seventy-two lashes,” Athos murmured, staring at nothing, his eyes deadened by the despair of resignation. “Has he designated a second?”

Aramis remained quiet, glaring into the unlit fireplace, his lips pinched tightly closed.

“Aramis,” Athos gently prompted in a cautioning growl.

“You,” Aramis said, his voice barely audible.

Athos nodded. He had guessed as much. “At least the lad will not be alone.”

“It’s a bloody disgrace,” Porthos hissed.

“We shall endure it,” Athos said firmly. He stood and stalked out of the room, the door slamming closed behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

The rain had not let up when the men of the Musketeers were called to assemble within the courtyard. A bench had been dragged out from the mess and now stood upon the flagstones beneath the outer wall, giving all a good view of the proceedings.

D’Melliuor stood upon the balcony with his son beside him, his mouth twisted in a small, yet haughty smile. Athos’ steely gaze never left the man’s face as Jussac read out d’Artagnan’s crime and its punishment. From those assembled who had not been privy to the details there came a murmur of disquiet.

“The Captain, in judging that the transgression was made though wilful negligence, not malice, has granted the cadet a reprieve from the fullest measure of the penalty for desertion,” Jussac read from the order, his voice a sneer.

Athos knew that none of the Musketeers gathered believed for a moment that d’Melliuor was being magnanimous in keeping d’Artagnan away from the noose. Even as strict as Treville could be, the same infraction – clearly nothing but an honest mistake – under his command would have meant no more than a bawling out and double duties, or a long, boring stint on guard. D’Melliuor’s obvious delight in ordering the whipping turned Athos’ guts sour.

D’Artagnan was trying not to shiver in his shirt and braies, lest it be mistaken for fear. Standing next to him, Athos offered him what comfort he could, though his face remained impassive. His hand about the boy’s upper arm squeezed it gently; the thumb, hidden from view, rubbing the skin in an encouraging manner.

When ordered, Athos directed d’Artagnan to the bench, and took the clothes as the boy handed to him. He lay them, neatly folded, upon a chair at the side, under which he placed d’Artagnan’s boots.

Once stripped, d’Artagnan laid upon the bench, his hands outstretched before him as if in supplication, turning his head to the side and pressing his cheek into the rain-slicked wood, his jaw grim-set but the fire in his eyes banked to prevent accusations of insolence.

Without betraying his rage, Athos swiftly tied the boy in place with cotton strips; one over the wrists, another at the neck, and another around the ankles. It was meant to be plain rope but Athos dared Jussac to make a point of his substitution. He made sure to fasten the strips tight so that Charles had something to strain against. By the end of the punishment he would need that help.

When finished Athos stood back, ensuring that he stood in the boy’s line of sight, barely a foot away, and on the opposite side to Jussac.

As the second in command withdrew the birches from their bucket and squeezed the excess water from them, Athos gave d’Artagnan an encouraging half-smile. D’Artagnan responded in kind, one eye flickering for the briefest of moments in a wink. Athos nodded in return, glad that his brother was as yet unfazed by his ill-treatment

Jussac started at d’Artagnan’s head, waiting for an unnecessary length of time before quickly swinging the birches up and down upon d’Artagnan’s palms.

The boy flinched but did not cry out.

Taking a step to the side, Jussac landed his second blow upon d’Artagnan’s back, over the shoulder blades where the skin was stretched tightest.

_So that was how the bastard was playing it? Laying one blow per area to let the abused skin settle and prickle before the next. A perfect method to elicit the maximum amount of pain from the subject._

Athos kept the fury from his face, saying with his eyes what he could not with words, encouraging the boy as best he was able. D’Artagnan took the pain bravely, barely making any sound, even when the tender skin of his feet was whipped. The look he fixed upon Athos nearly broke his heart, so filled with trust and a desire to be brave. He felt his breathing quickening and forced himself to focus on a more settled rhythm. Anger would not serve their young brother well here.

At the second pass, d’Artagnan’s teeth snapped together, his breath hissing through them with each strike.

Jussac made no attempt to pull his blows, the speed and force of the birches cutting with a whistle through the air and cracking down on the boy’s flesh with a meaty sound that made Athos nauseous. He could feel Jussac’s eyes upon him between each strike, daring Athos to meet them, to see the triumphant mockery there.

In his days as a Red Guard, Jussac had been beaten more than once in a tussle with the Musketeers:  clearly he was not a man to let old grudges lie.

On the fourth pass, as the birches landed on his thighs, d’Artagnan gave a low whimper. His eyes were misted with unshed tears, the idea that he was losing this battle of wills clearly filling him with mortification. But it was not until the sixth pass that he let those tears fall. His gaze was still on Athos, refusing to close his eyes, his lips pressed firmly together against any further noise. His body, in the places where the blows fell, was flushed an angry red, raised welts standing livid white among it. He twitched and shook when the birches fell but otherwise remained still.

Athos continued breathing deeply and slowly, encouraging the boy with his eyes to mimic the rhythm. _Breathe lad. It will soon be over. I am here. We are here for you, brother._

The birches landed with a crack against the crease of d’Artagnan’s buttocks and thighs. The boy yelped, clearly unable to prevent it, his cheeks flushing with horror and shame as he realised his slip.

“Hold,” Athos snapped. He marched forwards and dropped to one knee before d’Artagnan’s head.

“What is the matter, private?” D’Melliuor drawled impatiently from the balcony.

“His tie has slipped, sir,” Athos said, keeping his voice businesslike, unfeeling. “I must re-secure it.”

“Be sure that you make a better job of it this time,” d’Melliuor said dripping sarcasm.

Athos nodded mutely, his guts roiling, in desperate need of wine.

He took as long as he dared fixing the tie, letting one hand rest upon the boy’s head as he tugged the material to test it, his thumb quite accidentally swiping tears from d’Artagnan’s cheek in the process.

“All fixed, captain,” he said, giving one final squeeze of the boy’s nape before stepping back. D’Artagnan gave him a limp half-smile, which Athos returned in the form of the barest twitch of his lip. _Half-way through. Their brother could do this._

“Sir,” Jussac drawled, addressing the captain. “My arm is growing tired. May I request my second?”

From the crowd came the sound of Porthos’ growl, mercifully covered by the general unrest of the Musketeers. Athos thought he heard Aramis snarling: “ _That little shit_.” He fought not to chuckle at that; the grim reality of the situation was so absurd that he felt light-headed. It was a high price for his insubordination with the ties, but still better than Jussac continuing to wear the lad’s skin out like a fencer’s dummy.

At d’Melliuor’s authorisation he stepped forwards, trying not to snatch the birches when Jussac held them out, the man massaging his arm in melodramatic fashion. Athos was glad now that he had chosen to leave his knives in his chambers this morning; skinning the filthy turncoat would have given him no greater satisfaction but might have been frowned upon given the circumstances.

He cleared his mind of anger, however, knowing that his arm would respond in kind. His young brother did not deserve to feel Jussac’s wroth from a second party any more than he had deserved it first-hand.

Without pause to allow the situation to unman him, Athos laid a smart blow upon d’Artagnan’s thighs. He was not foolish enough to think he could get away with anything less than his full force, but without the vindictiveness behind Jussac’s blows d’Artagnan had at least a small measure of reprieve.

He ignored the small whimper from the lad; ignored the way his heart wrenched and tore, flayed as rawly as the skin before him. He was swift, not allowing time between the strokes for pain to build within either party.

At the ninth pass the first flash of blood began weep from the interlacing welts. He avoided the thin flesh at the shoulders, moving to the untouched skin of the middle back. _God strike him blind if the boy could not raise a sword thanks to this travesty._

D’Artagnan was yelping softly at each blow now, quietly enough that his voice barely reached the restless crowds. _Less than twenty to go. If Athos moved faster it would be over very soon_.

“Hold,” Jussac called.

Athos stilled, his hand raised above him. He glared at Jussac for daring to interrupt, the murderous heat in his eyes strong enough to make the commander flinch. The wretch regained his composure swiftly, however, responding to d’Melliuor’s inquiry as he strode forwards.

“He’s biting his lip, sir,” he said.

“Well stop him,” d’Melliuor drawled, “wouldn’t want the boy injuring himself.”

“ _You’re doing well enough for him_ ,” Porthos grumbled from the crowd. The words were low enough to be lost to all but the Musketeers in the courtyard, who gave a chuckling murmur of agreement at the rebuke.

“If you men find yourselves possessed with an overabundance of energy so that you cannot remain still, then I shall be pleased to find you more duties on which to expend it,” d’Melliuor snapped. “Or perhaps a reduction in rations is merited?”

As one, the Musketeers stamped to attention with overly-enthusiastic vigour, remaining in position as rigid and sharp as glass. Their grumbling may have ceased but discontent rippled just under the surface like a shark scenting blood.

Jussac meanwhile had pulled a dirty, well-used handkerchief from his pocket. He twisted the rancid cloth into a thin line before forcing it between d’Artagnan’s teeth to tie behind his head.

Athos was going to kill Jussac; slowly, over the course of many days. His hand gripped the birches so hard that his hand ached, wishing it was his sword that he could drive into the man’s belly. _He would writhe and scream for days before he died, poisoned by his own bile and shit._

Athos watched as Jussac retreated to his position, a triumphant sneer playing on the commander’s lips.

He looked down upon the birches, collecting his courage and steeling his heart. A line of blood pooled on the tip of one of the stems, gathering and then falling to splash upon the stones.

Movement before Athos had him looking again toward his brother.

With effort, d’Artagnan turned his head until he was facing Athos.

Seeing the boy’s brave, bold stare had the rage flood from him, and Athos gave the lad a purpose-filled nod, matching the boy’s determined gaze.

“If I might be permitted to continue?” he asked, words laced with sarcasm.

“Get it over with, private,” d’Melliuor snapped.

D’Artagnan didn’t move for the next six blows, though the delay between them had surely re-ignited the full fury of their sting. His eyes were dry, his breathing rapid and sharp, yet steady. Athos could not have been more proud of him.

The blood flew at each blow now, flecking Athos’ face and hands. _God help the boy, but he was the best of them. Henri would die. Jussac would die. No man would ever live that caused pain to the noble spirit before him. Not whilst Athos drew breath. Not while a Musketeer remained in Paris._

D’Artagnan’s eyes were glazed by the time Athos made the twelfth and final pass, his mouth hanging slack around that filthy rag.

Athos laid the last three blows down without pause. He ignored the words Jussac spoke to the crowd in conclusion of the farce, murder bubbling in his mind like a hot tar pit. He cast the birches to Jussac, interrupting the man and seeing with satisfaction the way the blood splattered over his face and torso.

As Athos cut the bindings over d’Artagnan’s wrists he saw that Aramis and Porthos working upon those at the neck and ankles. He cut the handkerchief from the boy’s lips, casting the ruined rag upon the ground. The smell of blood mixed with rainwater, and the sight of d’Artagnan’s ruined flesh close to, made him bite back nausea.

“Easy lad, we have you,” he whispered, stroking his hand – soaked in the boy’s own blood – over d’Artagnan’s sweat-drenched hair. His skin was cold and goose-fleshed from the rain, still falling as it was in a stingingly fine mist.

“Can you stand, _mon ami_?” Aramis whispered at his other side. “I have a cloak…”

“No…” d’Artagnan croaked a whispered reply, his voice raw. “No cloaks…” he pressed his eyes closed and with a shudder made to push himself from the bench, his weight upon his arms to save his punished hands.

Athos did not allow the lad to move more than an inch before he had swept him up. He held the boy’s legs at the knee under one arm, tilting the lad forwards so that his chest leant most of his weight against Athos’ own to support him. The hold was undignified, as one would cradle a child, but he would strike down any man who mocked his brother at this moment.

Not that the assembled Musketeers would have done so. The fury and discontent was palpable. D’Artagnan was well liked amongst the soldiers, thanks to his earnest yet easy-going nature, and penchant for harmless mischief.

In choosing d’Artagnan his whipping boy, D’Melliuor had made a most grievous error.


	6. Chapter 6

Athos marched, not to d’Artagnan’s room, but to his own.

With his brothers’ help he lowered the boy onto the bed as carefully as they could manage. Still it was not enough and d’Artagnan cried out, the first true cry since the start of his ordeal.

Aramis shed his cloak and hat swiftly, rolling up his shirtsleeves, his body moving with battle-trained swiftness.

They had prepared the room earlier: A fire was banked in the grate, warming a cauldron of salt water; Several clean towels lay ready, next to Aramis’ surgeon’s tools and bandaging; The bed was laid out with extra layers of covers so that dirtied ones could easily be removed, the cot itself dragged from the corner so that the three could move about it and their patient with ease.

Knowing he was useless when it came to doctoring, Porthos settled himself at the top of the bed, cradling d’Artagnan’s head in his hands and smoothing the boy’s hair. He helped to raise him as Aramis administered a tonic of laudanum, pinching d’Artagnan’s nose to force the boy to take the bitter concoction. He coughed and swallowed, retching at the taste, but the tonic acted swiftly, sinking the lad into stupor.

First the Spaniard cleaned off the blood and sweat with a soft, wet towel, ignoring d’Artagnan’s weak cries as the saltwater seeped into the cuts. Athos held the boy’s ankles as he squirmed, hardening his heart.

Unable to free himself from their assaults and his mind succumbing to the dizzying effects of the laudanum, d’Artagnan fell to soft weeping.

Porthos shot his brothers a look of consternation, his hard-lined face gentled with worry. Athos gave the man a sternly encouraging nod before returning to his duties.

After the wounds were cleaned and exposed, Aramis began to close those that needed it. Athos acted as nursemaid, handing Aramis cloth or needle as he asked for it, or holding down the boy if a particularly deep cut required greater attention. Though the birch twigs had been cleaned, some flecks of wood had entered the cuts, requiring Aramis’ deft work with a pair of tweezers to extract. D’Artagnan moaned and sobbed at those times, hushed by Porthos’ soothing nonsense words and gentle hands.

Finally the worst of the cuts were sewn, and Aramis gave the whole lot another clean with the salted water before applying a generous layer of salve. D’Artagnan’s hands and feet were wrapped in bandaging but the rest were left exposed. The fire would have to be enough to keep the boy warm tonight - he could bear nothing the rest upon his back.

When they were finished, d’Artagnan fell into restless oblivion. The sun was setting outside and none had eaten that day, but by unspoken consensus the three remained on watch over their brother. Athos sank into a chair beside d'Artagnan’s head, one hand – now clean of the boy’s blood – raised to cradle his own mouth in deep self-contemplation.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Aramis said softly from his place upon the floor at d’Artagnan’s side. His eyes were darkly weary, filled with sadness that Athos was certain mirrored his own. He could not bring himself to reply, however, knowing his words would be poorly chosen and unjustly directed toward his companions.

A knock disturbed the brooding silence. Porthos crossed to the door, his bulk blocking d’Artagnan from the visitor’s sight.

Antionne stood in the corridor, his hat in his hands. Upon seeing the boy’s woeful expression, Porthos stepped aside to allow admittance.

“Tonight’s duties have been posted,” the Lieutennant said, his eyes staying on d’Artagnan for but a moment before swiftly looking away. He could not meet their eyes, turning his hat nervously about the brim as he spoke.

“Surely the captain has not ordered Charles to—” Aramis began, his indignant rage building swift as a forest fire.

Antionne shook his head. “I believe he would be that cruel did he think our brothers would allow him without revolt," he said, startling them with his candour. "However, you three sirs are all on duty tonight."

Aramis hissed his rage but caught himself before he spoke. Despite all they felt for the man, it was unseemly to speak ill of Henri before his son. Porthos ground his teeth together, stomping about the room in a short burst of furious energy. Athos simply sat, one hand carding softly through d’Artagnan’s hair.

“If I might beg your favour,” Antionne said in the frosted silence. “Might I be permitted to take your place here, at our brother's side until your return?”

Athos broke a smile at that. Charles was not the only remarkable young member of the Musketeers.

“He needs salve applying every hour,” Aramis said by way of agreement. “Do not let him move, but if he wakes offer him some honeyed milk. The laudanum should last until the midnight bells at least, but should he need it give him no more than a spoon’s full.”

Antionne nodded, dutifully absorbing the medic’s instruction. “I shall watch over him. Upon my honour I shall see he comes to no further harm.”


	7. Chapter 7

It was not until long past midnight when Athos returned to his chambers. Both Porthos and Aramis had been assigned a double watch shift, Athos saved from the same only because there were no more walls to guard. Still, he would only be granted a few hours’ reprieve until his next duty began the hour before dawn. The captain seemed eager to keep the men from their friend at all costs.

“How fares our patient?” he asked, treading softly so as not to wake the boy.

“He slept most of the time,” Antionne said, his relief at the reprieve clear. “He woke a little while ago and took some milk… and some more laudanum.”

Athos saw even in the dim light of the fire that Antionne’s face was pale and drawn. Clearly d’Artagnan’s awakening had not been pleasant. A few extra cloths – soiled with fresh blood – lay upon the nightstand, but the boy’s back was clean and covered with a fresh layer of salve.

“You have my deepest thanks,” he said sincerely.

Antionne appeared startled at his words, looking away with a wince. “I did only what any decent man would,” he said, his tone saying far more than the words did.

Athos shed his boots and gloves, bending to bank the fire. He crossed over to d’Artagnan’s side opposite to Antionne and crouched beside the boy, his hand resting upon Charles' head as he surveyed him. D’Artagnan slept soundly, his breathing steady, but his eyelids grey and sunken.

Athos looked up when Antionne cleared his throat.

The young d’Melliuor sat in his chair, his body stiff with disquiet. His brow was furrowed, the gaze troubled as it stayed upon the cuts to d’Artagnan’s back, the skin about them flushed and bruised.

“The captain… monsieur de’Treville, I mean… he is innocent, isn’t he?”

Athos regarded the boy for some time, seeing the tense anxiety that he fought hard to control. Antionne was clearly struggling with a deep and unsettling truth.

Such a thing could only be met with the same.

“Yes, lad, he is.”

Antionne’s eyes closed and he breathed out deeply through his nose. “I knew he was,” he said dully. “Is there truly a Spanish agent within our ranks, or was that just a lie to discredit the Captain?”

 _The Captain_. Athos could not help smiling inwardly at that. Barely a Musketeer more than half a year and the lad was already as loyal as a priest to God.

Time to test that loyalty.

“We believe there is such a man.”

Antionne looked up at him, the pain and desperation in his eyes almost too great for Athos to stand, so alike as it was to d'Artagnan's. “You are looking for this man, Porthos, Aramis, and yourself?”

“Yes.”

“…and d’Artagnan?”

“D’Artagnan also.”

Antionne looked down at their fellow Musketeer. His hand twitched as if he wished to reach out and give the man comfort, but he kept it firmly clasped upon his lap.

Athos strolled slowly around the bed until he was beside the young lieutenant, resting his hip against the nightstand as he stared down at him, arms folded over his chest. He said nothing, but waited for the tension to build, knowing that the boy was desperate to speak.

Antionne could only keep his gaze for a short while before it dropped to his hands. In them he held a small, tin box, in which one might keep tobacco or snuff.

“During the…” he began, but paused before collecting himself once more, “…during the penance…” Antionne bit his lip hard before thrusting his hand out toward Athos, offering the tin to him.

“Whilst he was… distracted, I made an impression of my father’s keys,” he said, in a wavering, but emotionless voice. “One is to the Captain’s quarters, the second to a chest in which he keeps his private papers.”

Athos looked down at the tin but did not take it.

“You believe your own father a traitor?” he asked, his voice hard. Despite his own hatred for the man, Athos had not seriously considered Henri d’Melliuor a candidate for their investigation. Henri appeared no more likely to betray France than Richelieu, no matter how personally  despised they both were. However, the confession was clearly a deep wrench for the younger d’Melliuor, not lightly made. The chance that he could be setting Athos up for a trap with his father was a slim one, but such a deadly doubt could not be ignored, no matter its unlikelihood.

“My grandfather has made no secret that he intends on his death to gift the bulk of his fortune away from my father’s reach,” Antionne said, his hand still outstretched, eyes averted. His voice was numbed of emotion, a defence against the betrayal of his own blood and the shattering of one of the Lord’s most holy commandments.

“—I believe that my father would do anything to maintain the life that he has always known – that he believes is his right, no matter the hurt he may do others.” Antionne turned his gaze back to d’Artagnan, his eyes filled with a terrible sadness that could not have been feigned.

Athos took the box. He opened the clasp and saw the neat wax impressions within, good enough for a smith to make a usable copy.

“You are a courageous young man, Antionne d’Melliuor,” he said, resting the box carefully upon his nightstand. “Whether your suspicions prove false or not, to voice them at all was righteously done.”

Antionne gave no reply save a grimace.

They watched d’Artagnan for a while, the boy’s chest rising and falling in a pain-stunted manner, and his brows knit despite the laudanum.

His forehead was beaded with sweat. Antionne took a clean, damp cloth and leant across to dab at it, leaving the cool cloth to lay upon his brother’s nape.

“D’Artagnan is the brave one, not I,” he said with a gentle weariness. “I never understood until now the distance between our worth. Before entering into the Musketeers I had never experienced physical chastisement first hand. After my introduction to the _marquis_ , and witnessing today’s travesty, I have only the most profound respect for monsieur d’Artagnan. I… do not know how he bore it, only that I could not have done so myself.”

Athos placed a hand upon Antionne’s shoulder. “Courage comes in all forms,” he said softly. “You and he are no different.”

“I should have spoken of my suspicions earlier,” Antionne said, suddenly animated. He shook off the hand, spitting bitter venom. “I should have stood up to my father when he first cast such wicked judgements. I should have refused this absurd, shameful promotion that I neither deserve, nor thrive in. I am a coward, monsieur, do not attempt to so irrationally defend my honour.”

Had Antionne been looking up at Athos at that moment he would have seen the narrowing of the man’s eyes and feared for his skin. As it was, when he spoke, Athos’ word alone was enough to cause the young Musketeer to flinch.

“Stand.”

Unnerved by the cold authority in his tone, Antionne did not immediately respond. He looked up, cringing when he saw the deathly look upon the elder Musketeer’s face.

Athos gave him no further time to act, taking a firm grip upon the boy’s arm and yanking him from his chair. He took the seat without delay, pulling Antionne over his knees and immediately striking him firmly upon his backside.

He did not speak through the first ten blows, his hand falling rapidly and without pause to the tune of the boy’s muffled exclamations of both distress and dismay.

“You shall not speak to me or any other of your brothers in such a tone again, do you understand, sir?”

“Y—yes, monsieur!” Antionne yelped.

Athos laid down another ten powerful swats, holding nothing back.

“You shall not ever speak of yourself in such terms again.”

“Y—yes, I mean no, monsieur, I shall not!”

Ten more memorable swats, five atop one another on each cheek, his breeches and braies giving Antionne no protection at all against the fiery sting. He was mightily glad that d’Artagnan seemed oblivious to this display, blessing the laudanum its fine work in preserving his dignity.

“You are a young man, without the experience of your elders. You are as infallible as any other, and as such you shall face both judgement and reprieve.”

Antionne gulped, his head hanging low. Shame, not from his position but for his outburst, brought tears to his eyes.

“Yes, monsieur,” he chocked and then gave a muffled yelp of surprise as he was swung back to his feet, held before Athos by both arms as the Musketeer gave him the benefit of his hardest stare.

“You are a fine young man, Antionne – despite your earlier failings, for which you have done much to change yourself for the better. You shall be a great leader one day, as shall d’Artagnan.”

Athos paused, and he let his face soften. “Do not judge yourself so harshly upon the standards of others,” he said, not unkindly, “Not everyone’s opinion holds value.”

“Yes, monsieur,” Antionne said, his head bowed with humility. He was surprised once more to find himself suddenly caught in an embrace, Athos standing before him, pressing the boy against himself unselfconsciously. Antionne returned the hold like a starved man reaching for a banquet, a few tears falling before he gathered himself and pulled away.

“If you find yourself wishing to test your courage, seek out Gaspard and repeat what you said to me,” Athos said with a twitch of his lips.

Antionne gave a shy smile, swiping surreptitiously at his cheeks. “I may do so, sir, should I ever feel myself forgetting your lesson,” he promised with a rueful chuckle. “You have my thanks.”

“I would rather have your friendship,” Athos said, holding out a hand.

“You have it,” Antionne replied, taking the hand in a solid grip.

Antionne took his leave then, shutting the door with care behind him.

Athos added another log to the fire, stoking it in silence before turning to the bed.

“You can stop pretending now, young whelp.”

D’Artagnan gave muffled sound of surprise but kept his head buried within his arms.

“You knew?”

“I had a younger brother who would try the same trick, usually in the morning when schoolwork beckoned,” Athos replied, humour in his voice. “I found a slipper dissuaded him quickly enough... Fear not, though, in this case your actions were merciful.”

D’Artagnan shifted in discomfort, more from the conversation he had been privy to than the state of his back. Still Athos came close, placing the bottle of laudanum within easy reach upon the nightstand. He urged the boy to take a few bites of wine-softened bread, followed by some honeyed milk kept cool upon his windowsill. With some further coaxing, Athos managed to raise d’Artagnan’s torso up enough that he could slip beneath it, his legs a substitute for the pillow now propped behind his back. D’Artagnan remained stoic throughout, biting back his whimpers and any thought of objections as Athos took his place. The fact that he was still naked had not escaped his pain-hazed attention, but he could not bear even the thought of clothing himself.

“I heard what Antionne said… about his father,” d’Artagnan muttered as he shifted himself about the get comfortable, he winced and shuddered at the pain, his skin clammy with new sweat.

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow, when Aramis and Porthos return,” Athos said calmly. When the boy shivered once more he asked: “Think you could bear a sheet?”

D’Artagnan thought for a moment but then gave a begrudging sigh and a nod. Nevertheless, he gave a low cry as Athos spread the thinnest of coverlets over his body, his arms wrapping about the man’s torso reflexively as he buried his face in Athos’ stomach.

“—thos,” he chocked.

Athos stroked a soothing hand down the lad’s hair, pausing at the nape to toss aside the now-dry cloth, his thumb instead rubbing small circles there. Aramis might skin him tomorrow for letting the covers interfere with the wounds but it was better than the boy freezing to death.

“I’m here, lad,” he murmured soothingly.

“It hurts, ‘thos.”

“I know. You’re safe here, brother.”

D’Artagnan was quiet a while, his chest heaving with unshed misery, tears only barely at bay.

“I’m sorry I didn’t check the roster,” he mumbled into the cloth of Athos’ shirt.

“I know, lad.”

“I broke my promise to you.”

In the darkness of the room, with no man to see him, Athos couldn’t help but smile.

“You made a mistake, lad. Remember what I said to Antionne?”

“Before or after you spanked him?” D’Artagnan’s voice was watery but held a spark of mischief in it; a great relief after the past weeks’ troubles had driven away his good humour.

Athos reached down and lightly pinched the boy’s cheek.

“Brat,” he muttered fondly. “I said: “You are as infallible as any other, and as such you shall face both judgement and reprieve.” …You would do well to heed the same lesson.”

“Always, Athos.”

As brave as he attempted to sound, d’Artagnan still wavered on the edge of the precipice. Happily, Athos knew what to say to let the boy fall into the rift below, where cleansing absolution awaited.

“I am proud of you, my dear brother.”

D’Artagnan stiffened, his breath catching and then bubbling up in a long, chocking sob. Another followed, then another, and another. He clutched at Athos, heedless of his injured hands; nothing against the desire to be close to his brother. He gasped; fat, heavy tears flowing unchecked from his eyes, his nose running as he wailed into Athos’ lap, his voice muffled by the fabric – though he would not have cared if the whole garrison had heard him. He sobbed out all his pain and self-reproach; the disappointment he felt in himself and the careless oversight which had led him here, and the desperate impotence of his position. He cried for Athos, who had been forced to harm him thanks to that failing, and for his friends, forced to witness it. He cried for the unfairness of it, of the pain and the humiliation. He cried in frustration that he was the weakness in their armour that d’Melliuor could use to hurt his brothers. Finally, he cried knowing that it was only because the three men loved him so dearly that the weakness existed at all, and that, despite all he suffered, he would not forfeit that love even faced with all the whips and curses in the world.


	8. Chapter 8

“I still say it is a terrible idea.”

Athos sighed, growling, “ _Aramis_ ,” in a warning tone.

The Spaniard waved his hand as one would away unpleasant smoke. “I know, I know, our _petite_ Gascon is best fit for this mission, but by all that is holy, his back is only a day mended enough for the boy have rightfully left his bed!”

“An’ two days later than d’Melliuor _got_ him out of bed,” Porthos grumbled. He yelped a moment later as his knife slipped and caught his finger. Dropping the potato he had been working on, he stuck the injured digit into his mouth, glaring at his two friends, daring them to make comment. Beside him, Gauthier wordlessly took up the half-mangled vegetable and continued peeling it. The former quartermaster ignored the men and their conversation. Even though he was privy to their scheming he had shown no inclination to assist them. The man’s spirit had left him the day d’Melliuor had taken away his armoury.

Athos rolled his eyes and took another mouthful of wine. They had taken to sitting in the kitchens whenever one of them had been assigned there, though as yet Athos’ stable duties had shown no sign of abating.

“None of us have reason to be in d’Melliuor’s offices, nor opportunity to try,” he repeated.

“And if he gets caught, what’s the worst d’Melliuor could do?” Aramis said, voice dripping sarcasm. “Only beat him into a cripple.”

“Enough, ‘Mis,” Porthos snarled, no heat behind the words, just tiredness. “We’d all rather be in the whelp’s place and he knows it.”

That had rather been one of the problems, Athos thought glumly. Since his humiliation upon the square, d’Artagnan had fought more than ever to gain their approval. He worked with a furore of purpose that they had all been shamed into mimicking, barely allowing himself any rest since the day a little over a week ago.

D’Melliuor had quieted too, seemingly happy that the inseparables were suitably cowed into obedience for now. The exhausting duties had continued at the same pace, but there had been no more tricks with the rota, though they still scrutinised it with each change. D’Artagnan himself had been the model of reform in their captain’s eyes, performing his duties not only with diligence but with an eager smile. The way he kowtowed to Jussac and d’Melliuor made Athos nauseous, though he knew it was only a pretence. All for the good of the mission, he reminded himself, swallowing down wine like water.

“It could still be a trap,” Aramis reminded them. It a deeply gnawing worry that had Athos awake most nights since the scheme had been broached.

“The boy was sincere,” he said, for his own benefit as well as his companions', “I tested that commitment myself after all, and I am by far the greater prize if they were seeking to goad one of us into illicit behaviour.”

“True,” Aramis agreed begrudgingly, “were Antionne the same spoilt little shit as before, you would have been swiftly tried for assault of a superior officer.”

“Assault,” Porthos said with an explosive chuckle, “I'd say it was fair payback.”

“Antionne is not his father's whipping boy,” Athos reminded the man forcefully, steel in his tone, “We are not like Henri.”

Porthos looked suitably chastened, and mumbled a quick apology.

Athos let his eyes remain on his fellow inseparable for a few seconds longer, checking that the man was suitably contrite. “No matter what is done to us, retaliation will serve us only ill.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Porthos said. He met his brother's gaze and gave a sincere nod to accompany his vow.

“Aramis,” Athos clipped.

“Yes, yes, I understand, _mon frère_.” Aramis stopped as Athos turned to fix him with his uncompromising eye. “I understand, Athos. No unnecessary retaliation.”

“Until we got evidence,” Porthos said, his mouth a deadly grin, “Then I'm skinning that arsehole.”

“My dear Porthos, you shock me. I wasn't aware of your predilections!”

“Shut up, 'Mis.”


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

D'Artagnan's hands were sweating as he quickly set the woodpile and ash bucket down beside the fireplace. He tried to push down the feeling of panic, focusing instead upon the tightness of the skin on his shoulders and the ache on the balls of his feet where each step reminded him of his mission.

He had five minutes, give or take the acting abilities of his comrades.

The chest was set into the wall of the office. With hands he refused to let shake, d'Artagnan took the key from where it was safely tucked inside the band of his hat.

For a tense moment it refused to turn inside the lock, but a few wiggles and the teeth slid into place.

Barely breathing, d'Artagnan took out the bundle of papers from the otherwise bare interior, laying them out in a neat line so that he did not disturb their order.

The first three were sealed but looked like paid invoices to local merchants.

The second two were unsealed, and he spent several precious moments scanning their contents, only to be disappointed.

The last letter was unaddressed and sealed, the fatness of its contents suggesting something tantalising within.

 _Did he dare open the letter and risk all?_ D'Artagnan bit his lip in indecision and then quickly slipped to the table, taking up the letter knife and gently teasing the wax from paper. He had to go slowly, careful not to let the paper tear. Finally, heart bounding heavily in his throat, d'Artagnan's efforts were rewarded and the wax snapped free.

He spread the paper as far open as he dared, wishing to keep the creasing undisturbed.

Inside we're numbers – _dates perhaps?_ – values neatly inscribed beside them. Some also had words he did not know but were quite blatantly Spanish in origin.

D'Artagnan almost stopped breathing. _This was it!_ He made to stuff the paper inside his jerkin but paused. _Was this enough? What if d'Melliuor could explain the paper away with a lie? He was a noble, after all, nothing but catching the man in the act would be enough to incriminate him._

The last date, tomorrow, caught his eye, left without numbers beside it, but a single word: “ _ferreruolo_ ”.

Hastily, d'Artagnan crossed to the fire, holding the wax seal out toward the flames. When it was sufficiently melted he carefully re-folded the letter and pressed the seal closed. Thankfully it looked no different for his interference. He went to the lockbox, gathering the letters to replace as he had found them.

A crash had him leaping in the air, scattering the pages. He cursed on instinct, cursing again at his nerves which had lost him precious time now that the signal had been given.

Hastily gathering the papers once more, near to certain he had the order aright, d'Artagnan listened as d'Melliuor's sneer loudly chided Porthos for being a clumsy oaf.

Porthos was finished grumbling his apology when d'Artagnan was done, slipping the lock closed and hiding the key once more in his hat. As Henri's footsteps ascended the stair, he rushed to the fire, piling wood and clearing the ash as quickly as he was able. _Damn him for not preparing his escape beforehand!_

The door clicked open as he was shoveling the last of the ash into his bucket. Trying not to look startled or guilty, d'Artagnan turned to face the entree.

“Good Afternoon, Captain.” His tone was respectful and sunny, and he was proud with how level it was despite the beating of his heart. Thank God he had been tending a fire, the sweat on his brow would not be suspect.

“What are you doing in here, Cadet?” Henri snapped.

“Just tending the fire, sir,” d'Artagnan said. _Did d'Melliuor look suspicious? Was that a tell-tale anxious flicker in his eyes toward the lockbox?_

“How did you get in?”

D'Artagnan allowed himself to blink in confusion. “I... the door, sir?”

“I am not a simpleton. The door was locked,” d'Melliuor snapped.

“I beg your pardon, it was ajar when I passed, sir,” d'Artagnan hoped he was oozing as much respectful sincerity as he had practiced for. His hands ached from his quick work, the scabs over the cuts itching as the sweat seeped into them.

D'Melliuor looked like he did not believe him all the same, but he let the matter slide for now.

“Who ordered you to tend the fireplace?”

“Commander Jussac has instructed me to tend all the barrack fireplaces, sir.” That was technically true, though the Captain's room had never been tacitly included.

D'Melliuor grunted sourly and crossed to his desk. D'Artagnan waited at attention to be dismissed.

“You are not to do so again, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”

Henri jerked his head toward the door and d'Artagnan snatched up his ash bucket, hurrying to obey the unspoken command.

“Hold.”

D'Artagnan's hand stayed on the handle for a brief, terrified moment.

“Sir?” he ventured.

D'Melliuor looked down pointedly at his desk, upon which lay a few scattered papers. D'Artagnan hadn't looked at them, knowing anything of traitorous import would be safely locked away.

“Did you read my papers?”

“No, sir!”

_He was flushing, damn him. Why now?_

“Come here.”

D'Artagnan let his hand fall from the handle as if letting go of a life raft. He set down his ash bucket and came to stand at attention before the Captain's desk.

The look d'Melliuor gave him turned his guts to ice.

“You read my papers.”

“I promise you, sir, I did not!”

Henri stood, slowly, like a snake uncurling from its nest. He walked around the desk until he stood behind d'Artagnan, his body near flush with him, his breath cooling the sweat upon his nape so that he could not help but shiver.

“You read my papers, and now you lie about it.”

“Why would I wish to read your papers, sir?” d'Artagnan asked and immediately wished he hadn't.

“Why indeed?” D'Melliuor made his way back around the table, his arms held behind his back in an easy manner.

“...Curiosity, perhaps, or a more nefarious purpose. Perhaps you wished to find some secret, or you were looking for something to steal—”

“—No, sir, I—”

“Silence!” D'Melliuor slammed his hand down upon the tabletop. “I detest liars and thieves above all others. I thought you could be cured of your ridiculous infatuation with those other miscreants and their troublemaking ways, that you might as yet find your place in this garrison; one befitting your lowly station. But it seems you are incorrigible. I see no other option but to order your immediate dismissal.”

Where he had blushed now d'Artagnan felt the blood drain from his cheeks.

“Please, sir…” he started.

D'Melliuor cut him off with a glare.

“Youthful high-spirits can be trained out like one would a wilful cur, but I will not abide liars in my regiment, do you understand?”

D'Artagnan faltered. He was trapped, bound to his course of action by d'Melliuor's poison words. His pride, his honour, wrenched at the words he was forced to say, but say them he did, adopting a contrite, bashful tone.

“I was… simply curious, sir.”

Henri's eyes flashed with triumph. “So, you admit to prying through my papers, boy?”

“I...” d'Artagnan dropped his head, hoping to hide the frustrated fury within his expression. “I could not help myself, sir... I meant no harm.”

D'Melliuor grunted in satisfaction. His hands came to his desk, pulling open the long drawer at its middle.

“It seems that a more direct form of correction might prove effective, where formal penance did not,” he said. D'Artagnan heard the sound of wood withdrawn from the table, but kept his eyes fixed upon the surface, fighting the urge to run the captain through.

“In your confession you have shown a hint of promise. Let us see if we cannot cure you of your meddlesome curiosity.”

Henry's thin fingertips fell upon a parchment upon the table, twisting it until it faced d'Artagnan. He heard the man move, staking behind him like a prowling wolf.

A tight tap upon his backside.

“Lean over the desk.”

Thanking God that he had no cuts upon his rear and that the bruises were all but faded, d'Artagnan bent stiffly forward. He rested his forearms upon the cool wood, the parchment between them.

“Read aloud.”

The cane, for it must have been such an instrument, lifted his jerkin with menacing slowness, exposing his breeches fully. He wet his lips, forcing himself to remain calm.

“Twenty hundred hours,” he began, his voice hoarse.

The cane whistled through the air, landing a thickly cutting stripe upon the fullness of his flesh. D'Artagnan flinched and cleared his throat.

“Proceed along _Boulevard Poissonnière_ until the _Porte Saint-Martin_.”

The paper was long and boring, a patrol route for that evening. At each completed sentence the cane fell, punctuating his words. He refused to cry out but his breath came more harshly, his words cut off with stifled gasps. After ten strokes, d’Melliuor had hit his stride, managing to land each subsequent blow directly upon its predecessor before moving on.

“Proceed to—AH!”

“Continue.”

“Proceed to the _Rue Montmarte_ and return by _Rue de Cl_ _éry_...” D'Artagnan's voice was damp, shaking with suppressed, impotent rage.

A knock on the door halted Henri mid-swing. D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered closed in mortification as the captain called admittance without ordering him to move.

“I beg your pardon, sir, for the interruption.” Antionne's voice, cold and indifferent. “I can return later, if it pleases you?”

“No need, we are done here,” Henri said calmly. “You may stand, cadet.”

D'Artagnan did so, as swiftly and unfaltering as he could muster. He would not allow this shame to unman him, particularly with Antionne’s eyes upon him.

“Teaching the mongrel his manners, I see,” Antionne said with lofty disdain.

“Now, Lieutenant,” Henri did not bother to keep the humour from his mock admonishment, “the boy is here to train and to learn.”

Antionne gave a falsely apologetic bow. “Of course, Captain. I am certain that there are many things that the young peasant may learn from you.”

D’Artagnan did not miss the significance of those words, silently congratulating Antionne for his veiled sarcasm and his timely interruption. The younger d’Melliuor remained outwardly callous, however; ignoring d’Artagnan in favour of his father.

D’Artagnan saluted both d’Melliuors.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, and meant it: every slight and loss of dignity by Henri’s hand was another reason to pay the man back tenfold.

Henri tapped him upon the chest with the cane, emphasising his words. “Let this be a lesson to you, boy. I shall not tolerate devious behaviour of any sort in this garrison. Should you err again, I shall personally beat the lesson into your sorry hide.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Burning with furious hatred, d’Artagnan forced himself to bow in contrition, his words bitter on his tongue. He snatched up the ash bucket and hurried from the room before he could do something he regretted.

He ignored the eyes upon his when he left the captain’s office, shutting the door with care behind him. Aramis and Porthos were at the bottom of the stairs, concern and wrath warring upon their faces. Porthos in particular looked as if he had been close to sabotaging the mission and storming the office.

“Are you well, _mon ami_?” Aramis asked quietly as he reached the final step.

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan mumbled. There were others about the courtyard at this time of day, and it was clear by the looks he was receiving that the sound of the cane had carried far. He set down his ash bin beside the manure heap, thankful that his chores for the day were finished: attempting to kneel to tend to any more fireplaces would not have been a pleasant experience.

“Have you time to rest?” Aramis pressed. “We can fetch you some food—”

“Are you free from duties?” d’Artagnan cut in, addressing Porthos.

The large man looked startled at the abrupt question but nodded all the same. “Yeah, whelp, what do you need?”

“Good,” d’Artagnan stripped from his jerkin, doggedly ignoring his pain. “Spar with me.”

Porthos exchanged a look of wary concern with Aramis.

“I don’t think that a good—”

“You wanted to help, didn’t you?” d’Artagnan demanded. “Right now I feel a mighty need to hit something. Would you oblige me, or do I have to start insulting you first?”

Porthos broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pretend that I know the faintest bit of Parisian streets in this chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

“Tomorrow?” Athos asked. “You are certain?”

“Absolutely,” d’Artagnan said, smiling widely, pleased to to have surprised his fellow Musketeers with his success.

Athos returned the smile in his own sparse manner, glancing back down at the paper in his hand. It was an as near to exact copy of the bundle in d’Melliour’s safe as d’Artagnan could remember.

Porthos barked a triumphant laugh and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Well done, whelp.”

“He speaks true, you have done us and your regiment proud,” Athos said with enough sincerity to turn the lad bashful. His smile quickly lost its edge, however, “though you have paid a heavy price for your duty.”

“The Captain can give me a holiday when he is reinstated,” D’Artagnan chuckled good-naturedly.

“What, Treville?” Porthos laughed again.

Athos regarded his young brother with fond approval as the pair bickered. Ever since his ordeal in the office, Charles had been much altered for the better, returned to his carefree nature without the need to force it. Athos thanked God the boy’s spirit remained unbroken, and that good fortune guided them to a swift end to this farce.

Aramis bustled into the kitchens like a flustered hen. He threw down his hat upon a vacant chair and carefully stripped himself of his sweat-soiled jerkin with a grimace of distaste before rounding upon their youngest. Athos held back the chuckle that rose within him; even burstingly eager for news, Aramis was still a slave to his dress.

“Well?” The Spaniard demanded.

“A meeting tomorrow,” Athos said, holding up the paper copy.

Aramis snatched it from his fingers, eyes running over it greedily.

“A meeting, though we do not know where, only when,” he said, eyes dancing fast. His gaze halted upon a word – a flickering of uncertainty before returning to smiling enthusiasm.

“We should look into this,” he said swiftly. “Porthos and I currently are not bound by duty tomorrow.”

“What about me?” d’Artagnan asked, with equal swiftness.

“Doubtless Jussac will have more than enough to occupy you with,” Aramis said, waving his hand dismissively. “Besides, you have done quite enough for now.”

“Yeah, an’ even if he don’t you could do with a rest,” Porthos agreed.

“D’Melliuor didn’t beat me that hard!” D’Artagnan protested.

“Yeah, but then I got my hands on you, didn’t I?”

That was true. Porthos had allowed d’Artagnan a little more free-reign in their sparring earlier than usual, but had not gone easy on him, knowing the boy’s need to vent some rightful frustration.

“I’m hardly made of glass—!”

“One more word and I shall thrash you myself,” Aramis chuckled, taking the boy’s arm and directing him toward the kitchen door. “Speaking of which, to your bed; that’s doctor’s orders.”

“Yes, mother.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes fondly, skipping easily aside from the lazy swat Aramis aimed at his backside. He headed away without further complaint. That in itself said much; no matter how stoic their young musketeer was acting he was clearly sorely in need of a rest.

“Alright, ‘Mis, what’s up?” Porthos grumbled when the boy was long gone.

“You doubt Charles’ memory?” Athos asked quietly.

The Inseparables had been among one another for too long and cleaved too closely to have missed the tell-tale signs of distress in their brother. For his part Aramis did not fight them, simply sighing and holding the copied page away from him with distaste.

“The words are indeed Spanish,” he said in a dispirited tone. “More precisely they are words uncommon to the general tongue; This word here is for a particular stitching used in velvet linings; this one a cut of soft shoe popular for balls and light soirées. “ _Ferreruolo_ ” is a type of short cape, worn for the practical ease of drawing one’s sword.”

There was a tense, breath-stolen pause.

“You sayin’ that this is d’Melliuor’s damn _shopping list_?” Porthos snarled.

Athos stood, saying nothing, and began to furiously pace the floor.

“He will be crushed,” Aramis said miserably.

“No,” Athos snapped, whirling upon them. “Say nothing of this to d’Artagnan. We shall investigate nonetheless.”

“—and when we find nothing?” Aramis asked, brow arched.

“Then we continue the mission,” Athos shouted, one fist slamming down upon the table. His hand caught the edge of a plate, cracking it, but he paid it no mind.

“This changes nothing. Or would you care to tell the boy he has suffered again without reason?”

“‘Thos, your hand...” Porthos murmured, unnerved by the man’s rage.

Athos glared down at his hand. Blood seeped at a hearty pace from a long gash along the side of his palm. Snarling, he snatched up a dishrag to staunch the flow.

“We follow d’Melliuor tomorrow and we find evidence of his guilt,” he said in a deathly hiss. “I will not let Charles suffer further because of that man.”

“What if—” Aramis began but halted when faced by Athos’ tempestuous wrath.

Their leader held the gaze for a long, gut-clenching moment, and then whirled away.

“This changes nothing,” he said again as the door slammed closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today - more by the end of the week!


	11. Chapter 11

There was no answer later that evening when Aramis knocked upon d’Artagnan’s door.

“Charles, I’m coming in,” he whispered, loud enough that the boy would hear, and stepped inside.

The fire was out, the room cold. D’Artagnan lay upon his cot, facing the wall, yet still clothed in shirt and braies. He was awake but did not turn, even after Aramis had closed the door.

“Charles, you are in the dark,” Aramis ventured.

D’Artagnan barked a laugh, the bitterness of the sound startling the Spaniard.

“I’m sure you appreciate the irony of that statement.”

Armani’s paused and then blanched as realisation hit him.

“You heard us. How?”

“The kitchen fireplace backs on to the one in the lower dining hall. If you stand in the grate you can hear the words echo.”

Alarming as this statement was for the implications to their secrecy, the worse was the knowledge that the three inseparables had been caught in deceiving their friend.

“We did not wish to see you hurt...” he began.

“I am not a child, Aramis!”

The tears plain within the boy’s speech betrayed him. He had looked up during that hot, snarling statement, and what Aramis could make out in the dark was pure anguish.

“No,” he solemnly agreed. “You are our dearest friend.”

“Hah!” d’Artagnan leapt up, though the move left him wincing. “Your friend perhaps, but not your equal. Clearly I am to be coddled, you certainly don’t have the decency to treat me with respect.”

Aramis stayed silent, letting those awful, rage-filled words hang in the heavy air. After a moment the fullness of d’Artagnan’s rage left him and he deflated, sinking back within himself as his mind caught up with his mouth.

“When you are healed, we shall revisit those words, young Gascony,” Aramis said with dark promise. “You are angry, and rightfully so, but I am no more your whipping boy than you are d’Melliuor’s.”

D’Artagnan’s face showed the pain and disgrace he felt, gaping in mortification at his brother. “Aramis... I am so sorry,” he said, voice hushed with self-reproach.

“You certainly shall be,” Aramis said, forcing lightness into his tone. “For now I have come with fresh salve. You can begin your atonement by allowing me to apply it without fuss.”

D’Artagnan flushed but hung his head, chastised into obedience. He allowed Aramis to draw him to the bed, laying over the man’s lap with only a brief protest.

“Can’t I simply lay down...”

 “Of course you may lay down... _over my lap_ , Charles.”

Suppressing a mortified groan, d’Artagnan lay over Aramis’ knees, shifting obligingly as his braies were drawn below his bottom to his lower thighs.

Aramis hissed through his teeth. The boy’s backside was bruised in uniform lines from its peak to upper thighs. The crease of his undercurve was the worst affected; at least five or six strokes had landed in the same place if Aramis were any judge of the single red and purple welt there.

“For God’s sake, ‘Mis, are you done looking?” d’Artagnan whined.

Aramis couldn’t bring himself to swat the boy for his cheek. Instead he reached down and pinched the tender flesh behind his ear, making him yip and wriggle.

“Enough, brat, and let me work.” He took up the salve; first dabbing it upon the welts and then working it in as gently as he was able.

D’Artagnan sucked in his breath and buried his head into his arms. His fingers were twisted into the covers, gripping so tightly he was like to rip them apart. Aramis allowed his free hand to linger near the boy’s scalp, long fingers working into his silky hair and rubbing a steadying rhythm that distracted from the likely hideous ache in his rear.

“Your efforts are no less diminished by their success or failure,” he said quietly. “We have never asked any less from you than what we are sure is within your scope, and yet you always give us far, far more.  A finished masterpiece has a thousand incomplete canvasses in the master’s past.”

“No one died from not finishing a painting, ‘Mis,” d’Artagnan grumbled. He was muffled by the covers, but his voice was hoarse from unshed tears.

“You have not met many court painters, I see,” Aramis chuckled, both hands still soothing the lad. “My point is that whatever setbacks we face, your achievements still stand. We three are constantly astounded by your courage and your fortitude. We have been powerless to help you these past weeks. Can you truly blame us for wishing to protect you in whatever small way we can?”

D’Artagnan huffed and sniffled something that sounded like it could have been: “ _Don’t need protecting._ ”

Aramis smiled fondly, patting the boy's bottom softley. “ _Mon frère_ , that is simply not your choice to make.”

Treatment complete, Aramis rested his hand upon d’Artagnan’s hot flesh, still rubbing circles into his neck. Slowly the tension leaked from the boy, along with telltale sounds of tears. Aramis murmured gentling words, letting the lad release his miserable frustration.

When Charles had wept his last, he settled into a stupour, on the edge of sleep. Aramis shifted back, the boy still upon his lap, until his back met the wall. He pulled a thin sheet over d’Artagnan, firmly shushing his muffled protests, and watched the boy until he fell into deep sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

D’Artagnan awoke with a pained hiss. Something rough was brushing against his tender backside in a slow, rhythmic motion that felt like a rasp upon his exposed flesh. After a moment he realised the cause: Aramis was asleep beside him, their bodies pressed together in a nearly intimate way that had him flushing scarlet and fighting the urge to push the man away. A purely reactionary response, of course; if it wasn’t for the roughness of the man’s trousers the embrace would have been nothing but a further balm to soothe his injuries – he was not so proud to admit to himself that such a thing brought him comfort.

Aramis took another deep breath, his body moving to scrape once more against d’Artagnan’s skin. There was no way of extricating himself without waking Aramis, and from what he could see of the man’s face, he was in sore need of rest.

_Damn that silly Spaniard! Why had he not undressed before sleeping if he had planned to stay? He even still wore his boots – d’Artagnan’s bedsheets were likely currently suffering under the accumulated day’s filth of the Parisian streets. Of all the times not to be precious about his ridiculous fashion..._

D’Artagnan sat upright with a yelp. The move startled Aramis, who bolted up into a defensive crouch, hands ready to ward off would-be attackers. He gazed about himself dazedly, but seeing them alone, focused upon his brother.

“What is it, _mon frère_? A night terror?”

D’Artagnan shook his head jerkily, mind reaching out to grasp at the tendrils of his epiphany before it escaped him completely.

“Charles...”

“—SHH!”

“Very well,” Aramis huffed, settling back down with poor grace, “wake me should the garrison catch fire.”

“At least remove your boots!”

“Ah! It speaks!”

D’Artagnan huffed in annoyance. “Aramis, hush, _please_.”

Detecting the sincerity in the boy’s voice, and eager still to prove to him that he had their respect, Aramis quietened. He watched d’Artagnan in silence, almost seeing the cogs turn in his brother’s mind.

“The _Boulevard Poissonnière_ , does it have a tailor?” the boy finally asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“And the _Rue Saint-Martin_?”

“None of any decent repute.”

D’Artagnan looked disappointed but pressed on.

“What about _Rue Montmarte_?”

“Are you joking?” Aramis scoffed.

“No?”

Aramis shook his head at his young brother’s naiveite. “Bisset of _Le Paon_ is one of the most sought after tailors in Paris for the lower gentry. He does excellent work and, dare I say, at only mildly extortionate prices. Not work for the king, of course, but any man of good standing would cut off his right arm to attend Bisset, and be lucky to be seen within a year.”

“His style, is it Spanish?”

Aramis wrinkled his nose. “No man worth his coin would dare be seen in anything but Parisian style these days.”

“So why is d’Melliuor?”

“He—” Aramis paused. “You know, that is a very good point.”

“And if the package was for a tailors, why is the address missing from the front? Why lock it on the safe?”

“I have never seen d’Melliuor in anything but the latest Parisian fashion,” Aramis mused. He brightened, eyes sparkling in the dark of the room. “ _Petit_ Gascon, I believe you may have found a clue after all. But why _Rue Montmarte_ _?_ ”

“There’s a patrol there tonight,” d’Artagnan said, ignoring how he had come by this information. “It’s not one of our usual routes.”

“I wonder who is on duty…” Aramis mused. “No matter, we shall discover it soon enough. I—What of the time?!”

Having had the same thought, d’Artagnan sprang to his feet. From his window, craning as far as he was able, he could just make out the garrison clock. “Near midnight,” he said with a tinge of panic. “The man on patrol will be close to the Montmarte by now.”

“Worry not,” Aramis said, standing and donning his hat with a flourish. “Porthos and I shall make it in time.”

“What about me?” d’Artagnan demanded.

Aramis had expected the appeal and silently thanked the boy for taking a belligerent rather than pleading tone; it was far easier to harden his heart against a frown than tears.

“I shall not argue with you over this,” he said, forcing harshness into his voice. “You have done more than enough, Charles, and are still recovering.”

“For God’s sake, Aramis, it was a caning not a mortal wound!”

Aramis grabbed d’Artagnan’s upper arm and landed a powerful swat on his backside. The boy yelped, near levitating as he leapt away from the blow. He gave Aramis a mortified glare, pained tears glistening in the light of the moon through the garrison window.

“That was for blasphemy,” Aramis said, twitching a small smile before returning to his serious mien. “I will not allow you to enter a dangerous situation when you are not your best, not if any of us can avoid it,” he said, ignoring the look of betrayal. “If you make a false move thanks to your injuries and we lose you, then I shall be undone.” He laid a hand upon the boy’s shoulder, gripping tightly so that he could not be shaken off. “We would _all_ be completely undone, _mon frère_ ,” he repeated with sincerity. “…Please, trust that Porthos and I can handle this; as I trust that you can stay here, patiently, until our return.”

D’Artagnan hung his head, fighting to control his emotions. When he raised it once more, Aramis was proud to see that his frown was gone, replaced by grim, yet sincere eyes.

“I trust you, brother.”

Transferring his hand to the young man’s nape, Aramis gave it a fond squeeze before stepping away and turning for the door.

“Aramis…” d’Artagnan took a deep breath as the man looked back to him, forming a true and earnest smile. “…Be safe.”

“Always,” Aramis promised, then slipped out into the night.


	13. Chapter 13

 

Aramis waited in a dark doorway opposite _Le Paon,_ hidden by the shadows as he watched for any sign of their target. A light from between the shuttered windows told him some soul still worked at this late hour; not unusual for a trader working up his commision but enough to keep him hopeful.

By his estimations the patrolling Musketeer would reach him in the next half hour. If the _Le Paon_ was not his destination nothing would be lost, for Porthos followed Jussac as silent and stealthy as a wolf.

It had surprised Aramis not a bit that Jussac was assigned this suspicious duty; no commander would take upon such trivial duties without cause. His blade hand itched to administer not-so-swift justice upon the man for all the ill he had wrought - blessed Lord save his soul but the red-stained turncoat needed to suffer long before he died, and Aramis would accept the darkest depths of purgatory to that end.

The Rue was dark and foggy at such an early hour, the city mist clinging to the corners with wraithlike hands where the street lanterns failed to reach. Sounds travelled far in the silence, Aramis picking up the tell-tale slap of leather upon stone long before Jussac strolled into view.

The man's arrogance even conveyed itself to his stride, confident stamping that cared little for witnesses, only that they _did_ witness Jussac in his greatness.

Aramis forced himself to stay still, watching with eager-narrow eyes as the commander strolled toward _Le_ _Paon._ To his chargrin, the man passed it by, but the disappointment was short-lived as Jussac made an abrupt turn-about and slunk to the doorway, painfully obtuse.

Aramis listened to the pattern of knocks, memorising it as the door opened. He did not hear what was exchanged by Jussac and the man within, his face eclipsed into shadow by the lamplight behind him. Whatever was said Jussac entered and, with a quick darting look to spy out any witnesses, the man within closed the door.

"We got the bastard," Porthos rumbled happily, when Aramis met with him in the next doorway beside the entrance of _Le Paon_.

"What now?"

"We wait until he comes out."

"And then?"

Aramis gave a tight, nasty smile. "And then; we improvise."

Barely ten minutes passed before Jussac exited Le Paon, strolling away as if he had all the time in the world.

After waiting another few minutes to ensure the man was gone, Aramis motioned to his friend to keep to the shadows, stepping out and then knocking on the door.

There was a hushed, panicked silence within, followed eventually by the opening of the main door a slight crack.

“Finally,” Aramis huffed in true frustration. “I thought I would wait here all night!”

“What do you want, monsieur?” asked the hesitant voice from within.

“Come, now, don’t be shy,” Aramis pressed. “The weather out here would be enough to drive any man aground, let alone to such unwelcome shores.”

He could see one eye peeking through the inch of space between the door and it's frame, looking wary and unsure. Driving a hand into his jerkin, Aramis withdrew a folded parchment from within.

"I have the papers, so come; let me in before some idiot sees us."

He made sure to hold the paper at such an angle that the man within had to open the door wider to get a proper look. The second he did so, Aramis pushed inside, waving the paper like a white flag against any possible rejection.

"Come on, man, have courage!" he sang, deliberately walking so that the worried tailor had to turn to keep facing him. Now that he saw him in a better light, Aramis recognised him as the proprietor, Bisset. He was a thin, short man of middle to late age, eyes pinched and bespectacled thanks to the intricacies of his work.

"Surely you were expetting me?" Aramis said.

"I... but the other...!"

Aramis paused, letting himself frown. "What other? Do you mean to say there has been another musketeer here this night? An imposter?!"

"Impossible," the tailor shook his head, "I have met Jussac many times, but I have not met you, Monsieur!"

"Well of course not!" Aramis huffed. "I don't make it a regular occurrence to bandy with traitors of France."

Behind the tailor the door clicked closed, the lock turning loudly in the silence as Porthos slid home the bolts.

"You hear that, Aramis? "Met Jussac many times", he says."

"Practically brothers, I would say, Porthos, my good friend."

The tailor, having whirled about to confirm his entrapment, paled visibly at their names.

"Tr—traitor?" he squeaked. "O—of all the preposterous...!"

"Of course, preposterous that you would do such a thing, considering what a foul and excruciating death would await you were that the case," Aramis said with a lupine smile. "No, surely you are an innocent in this matter, pressed into service by those more wicked and far more deserving of such a fate."

For a moment it seemed this tactic would work but a beat later the tailor straightened, throwing out his pigeon-chest with as much prideful arrogance as his shop namesake.

"Now listen here, you... ruffians! I shall not be intimidated by mere _watchmen_. What right have you to come barging in here at such an hour? I shall call the cardinal's guard on you!"

As he spoke Aramis and Porthos moved, ensuring they were not both within the man's range of sight at the same time. Porthos affected a nonchalant air. He ignored the tailor, instead spying a finely-embroidered jerkin on a mannequin and lifting the sleeve up for closer inspection.

"I've spent more time as I'd like with a needle in my hand the last couple of weeks," he said casually. "This is some bloody good work."

"I—," the tailor faltered, unsure how to proceed.

"Here, 'Mis, take a look at this," Porthos said. He gripped the body of the mannequin and with a quick tug, easy for his muscles to achieve, tore the sleeve from the jerkin. Ignoring the tailor's cries he chucked the ruined cloth over to his conspirator, who surveyed the stitching with an appraiser's eye.

"Hmm, it is passable, but there are some snagged threads here and there," he mused. "Honestly, I'd advocate starting again."

"What is the meaning of this?!"

The three men turned at the interruption: a shrill cry from the doorway of the room within, originating from a woman who could only have been Bisset's wife.

"How dare you invade our home at this hour," she snapped, striding into the room, her eyes afire. She wore a nightgown, her hair loosely plaited away from her sharp, intelligent face. Aramis was put in mind of a raven; beautiful but selfish. If he was any judge of other subtle cues, this bird had flown far from her home indeed.

He swept his hat from his head, bowing deeply.

"I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Madame," he said silkily, "we are currently in discussion with your husband over a private, yet serious matter, please, do not be alarmed."

Indeed she was not alarmed, Aramis noted as he watched the woman carefully, but she was nervous; it seemed there were no secrets within the house of _Le Paon_. Time to change that.

"Or perhaps it best if you do know," he said, allowing himself to become sadly hesitant. "You are also a wounded party in this, of course, not just my sister."

Now the lady did look not only alarmed but growingly furious.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded, eyes narrowing upon her husband who sputtered half-formed words of innocence.

"It is as you suspect," Aramis said, shaking his head in sorrow. "I have come to discover the whereabouts of their meeting place, as my sister waits there even now, ready to elope."

"Nonsense!" Bisset managed to splutter.

"Ai, for I was betrayed even by my own brother in arms," Aramis said, placing a woeful hand upon his brow. "Jussac goes to her to make ready for the escape. Their plots have been devilish cruel and intricate, for a while I suspected them even of treason, and yet it transpires my own sister has fallen under this man's wicked spell!"

Porthos clapped Aramis upon the shoulder in a consolatory manner, his pinched lips showing only anger whilst in truth he fought hard to keep his laughter in check.

Aramis dipped into his jerkin, withdrawing his letter with a flourish.

"I would not have thought it possible myself, had I not intercepted one of their letters – my sweet sister! Oh! What has become of your innocence?!"

The Lady Bisset snatched the letter from his hands, tearing it open and scanning the page with fast-furious eyes. Whatever was in there had her blushing like a virgin, growing quickly enraged. Porthos wondered from which of Aramis' conquests the love-letter came, envying the man his ease at courting the fairer sex.

"I do not believe it!" the lady Bisset snapped. “Preposterous lies!"

"Perhaps it is as you say, my dear lady," Aramis said with a weary shake of his head. "The courier might have been taking the note to any tailor along the _Rue_.”

Knowing that this was the _only_ tailor on the _Rue Montmartre_ , Aramis turned to Porthos, who managed to hide his incomprehension when Aramis next said in Spanish:

" _Come, let us seek out my sister fast. I dare not leave her over-long in her delicate condition_."

There was no need to see lady Bosset's face to gauge her reaction. Another, tempestuous shriek erupted from her and she dashed toward her husband, grasped by Porthos and held away from him as she screamed and spat vile curses. Bisset himself had gone sallow, looking as if he would be ill at any moment.

“Marie, hush,” he said, his voice thick with dread.

“Yes, hush, dear _se_ _ñora_ ,” Aramis said, his voice now hard as the steel he drew. “You have both said quite enough to earn a stay in the Bastille, however short that might be before your wretched bodies are dealt with at His Majesties’ leisure.”

Marie – or more accurately, Marianna – had stilled at this dread pronouncement of their fate, her rage-red cheeks draining of their fiery Spanish blood. Porthos’ hold on her was tight and unyielding, but she did not resist as he dragged her to her husband’s side.

“Not seen a good quartering in a long time,” Porthos said with a jolly chuckle, “wonder which bits His Maj’ll have ‘em cut off first.”

“Our King is a traditionalist,” Aramis said in the same light tone, “a blade is far too swift… Likely they shall be drawn apart by horses and what breathing part remains burnt to ash.”

Bisset let out a low moan, and would have sunk to the floor if Porthos had not steadied him. Mme Bisset simply stood, her head raised high in spite of the terror in her eyes.

“I spoke truly before,” Aramis said gently then, “there are those far more deserving of such a fate. We are but two men, if we must pursue those criminals we will not be able to hold you in custody. By the time we return I am sure you will have already fled.”

“What, leave Paris?” Bisset asked dully, the thought clearly giving him nearly as much terror as the thought of his impending execution.

“Better exile then a slow, excruciating death.”

“What about my shop!?”

“Your shop or your life,” Porthos growled incredulously, “which is more important?”

Bisset looked ready to keep arguing but Mme Bisset overruled him. “We shall tell you what you wish to know,” she said, ignoring her husband’s protests. “On your word that you shall allow us to leave France unhindered.”

“I promise you that unless the King himself orders your pursuit, I shall let you free,” Aramis said solemnly, “but if you return, I shall not be so kind.”

Marianna held out her hand, shaking Aramis’ to seal the pact.

“The men you seek gather tomorrow night in the gardens of _des Tuileries_.”

“Why there?”

“They mean to stage an attack upon the palace across the river; tomorrow’s meeting is to make their final arrangements.”

“Have you met with any of the conspirators?”

The lady shook her head. “Aside from Jussac we know no names.”

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look, then nodded.

“Get out of Paris,” Aramis said. “I do not have to tell you that you shall be closely watched. Should you seek to alert these men, then you shall share their fate.”

“You have our word,” Mme Bisset said crisply, taking a fierce grip on her husband’s hand as the man made to protest once more.

“An’ if you think you’d quite like to stay in your cosy little shop, think again,” Porthos said with a feral smile, “’cause I’ll come back and burn it down, an’ I’ll keep you locked inside.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the brief hiatus, I've been struggling with a rotten cold this past week! Hopefully this chapter offers enough compensation!
> 
> (I changed the location of the meeting place. As FierGascon helpfully pointed out; construction of Les Invalides was not begun until some decades after our heroes' tales, whereas des Tuileries was a popular playground for the nobility at the time.)

The gardens _des Tuileries_ were bright and pleasant for a stroll if one were of suitable noble birth or rank to enjoy them. D’Melliuor was both, of course, but Athos wondered darkly if every conspirator in this plot were as high ranked as their damnable captain. To have chosen the meeting point during the day suggested that this was so, given the openness of their location. Even here, in the orchard, with the young trees grown enough to provide a little shade from the unpleasantly close heat, there was a risk of being overseen. Both the conspirators and those watching them were in danger of spying one another at any moment.

Athos wondered also as to the choice of location. _Did they wish to somehow implicate the kings exiled mother – the garden’s_ _patron – into the plot, or was it simply that d’Melliuor’s duties had brought him here, providing him with an easy excuse if his motives were called into question?_

Jussac too, had a similar alibi, and yet it seemed wantonly brazen of the conspirators to meet in such a place, with the king so close by. Only the commander was currently at their meeting place, with d’Melliuor required at his King’s side, however; as was custom, the captain of the Musketeers would on occasion make a patrol of his outlying men to ensure all was well. It was for this time that Athos and d’Artagnan waited.

Athos gripped his sword hilt, barely wincing at the twinge to his hand. The pain of the wound focused him, cutting though the doubts and the rage.

He saw d’Artagnan to his left, hidden well behind a clustering of high-grown foxgloves and their companion apple trees. The boy was still, as focused as a hunting hound which had caught sight of its prey. His eyes never left Jussac’s form, the commander standing relaxed and cocky as he surveyed the gardens with a bored air.

They waited, barely breathing.

A line of sweat ran down Athos back. His legs ached from where he crouched and he gripped his sword so tightly that blood began to ooze from his bandage, dripping from the hilt.

A great pity that both Aramis and Porthos has been assigned to guard the King and could not abandon their post in case it aroused suspicion, but they could at least be happy in the knowledge that they had played a crucial part in this impending victory.

A movement and a sharpening of attention from Jussac had Athos tensing. A gardener; come to tend to the plants. The flash of irritation on Jussac’s face suggested that this was not one of the conspirators.

Athos cursed the man as he set down his basket and began fussing with the flowers. He was not two feet away from d’Artagnan’s hiding place, growing closer with every passing moment. He saw D’Artagnan tense, ready to signal and hush the man should he be spotted. The last thing they needed was for an innocent bystander to get hurt in this, or worse: for the conspirators to be alerted and make their escape.

Jussac snapped an acerbic dismissal at the gardener, who ignored him completely. Incensed, the commander made toward the servant but halted by another voice.

“Leave him be,” the newcomer said, stepping out onto the path. He was an unassuming gentleman, dressed as a palace guard. Athos thought he could remember seeing the apparent spy at court before.

“He’s one of yours?” Jussac eyed the gardener with distaste.

“Your master is not the only one to require a guard dog,” the newcomer said with an unpleasant smile. “Phillipe will not disturb us, unless you give him cause.”

Jussac gave an inelegant grunt. “More damn Spaniards.”

“Phillipe represents another interested party,” the so-called guard said with a shrug. “There are more players in this game eager to see the fool-king dead than I and my countrymen.”

“I don’t like the idea of your Spanish bitch on the throne,” Jussac said with a growl.

“Better a Catholic Spaniard, than a Huguenot puppet.”

So there it was, enough evidence to damn the pair thrice over, Athos smiled grimly. But d’Melliuor had yet to make an appearance and tensions were running high. It would all be for naught if the conspirators killed each other before they could be brought to justice. Better that than nothing, however, and so as the pair made to draw blades, Athos prepared to intercept.

“All this squabbling over the same god,” d’Melliuor’s voice brought them all to a standstill. “Can you infants agree to a similar cause at the very least?”

The palace guard halted, shooting the captain a surly look.

“Any Christian God is preferable to your idolatry of gold, _Marquis_.”

“Yes, yes, I am utterly despicable. Exceedingly, despicably wealthy,” d’Melliuor waved his hand before him to dismiss such nonsense. “Can we get on with this, the king will not wait forever.”

“He shall learn to do so in the pits of hell.”

“Guerrero, do restrain yourself,” d’Melliuor said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Athos glanced over to d’Artagnan. The boy was entirely still, despite the encroaching threat of the Spanish bodyguard, his hand on his pistol.

Then it happened, the gardener-spy looked up and met eyes with d’Artagnan.

Unperturbed by his discovery, d’Artagnan gave the man a businesslike nod, then, feigning disregard, he returned his gaze upon the gathered conspirators.

Disconcerted by this response, the bodyguard did not immediately raise the alarm. D’Artagnan was wearing a Musketeer’s uniform, after all; it wasn’t unreasonable to assume he was another guard to this meeting. By the time he had decided on his course of action and opened his mouth to shout a warning, however, he found himself at eye level with the unpleasant end of d’Artagnan’s pistol. The boy gave him a cheeky grin, his eyes promising death should the man be foolish enough to speak.

Athos turned his attention back to the three conspirators, whose conversation had finally turned to the specifics of their attack. By the sounds of things, they were mere days away from a full-scale assault of the palace. Guerrero appeared to be supplying the brute power, whilst the implication seemed to be that d’Melliuor would supply the arms from the Musketeer’s barracks itself.

Athos ground his teeth in rage. They would discover the specifics of the conspiracy during a hearty dose of interrogation, for now if was time to act, before d’Artagnan’s new friend lost them the element of surprise.

He stepped forwards from his hiding place. The movement drew everyone’s attention, allowing d’Artagnan the chance to step within the gardener’s guard with his gauche and skewer the man’s hand where it had been reaching into his basket, likely for a weapon. He followed with a blow to the temple with the butt if his pistol, knocking the man unconscious. Stepping over the prone form he levelled the pistol at the three conspirators, face a murderously grim mask.

Athos meanwhile had drawn his main blade, holding it low for now as the pair approached their marks.

“In the name of the King of France, I arrest you for conspiracy to commit treason,” he said, his voice cold steel.

D’Melliuor rallied first, giving a high, barking laugh.

“Treason? What nonsense.”

“We heard every word, _Captain_ ,” Athos sneered, “Do not insult us with more of your lies.”

“You?” D’Melliuor scoffed, “and who are you? A farm boy and a drunkard? Against a noble and a captain who do you think shall be believed?”

“Another noble, perhaps,” said another voice behind them.

The conspirators whirled to see this new enemy, the colour draining from D’Melliuor’s face at the sight.

“Or another Captain?” François D’Melliuor said coolly, his gaze not leaving his son’s as he indicated his head toward his companion as they both stepped from their hiding place.

Athos let himself smile thinly. “Good to see you, sir.”

Treville, sword and pistol levelled at the traitors, gave a nod to his second in command. “Good to be back, sir, it seems you kept yourself in plenty of trouble while I was gone.”

Henri d’Melliuor’s hand flew to his sword hilt, a desperate look in his eye. Pushing Guerrero toward Treville and his father, he made to rush through the opening to Athos’s left. He was halted by Athos’ blade, turning to face him with a hesitant, dangerous glare.

“Do not fight me,” Athos ordered.

“I would have thought you eager for such a chance,” d’Melliuor said feigning joviality.

“If you fight me, I shall kill you,” Athos said, his voice and gaze unwavering steel, “and, upon my honour, I shall make it quick and painless. You deserve neither such mercy.”

Henri looked for a moment as if he would surrender but then Jussac broke away, dashing toward the trees. At the same time Guerrero lunged at François, parrying Treville’s thrust with a swiftly drawn blade of his own.

Henri struck at Athos. Despite all his pomp he was still Musketeer trained, thrusting with precision and skill. Athos parried the attack, but to his dismay his sword slipped, the slickness of his blood loosening his grip. Narrowly avoiding the man’s blade, he made to draw his main gauche, but another attack came before he was ready, forcing him to party again with his main hand. The impact jarred the sword from his grip, Henri’s rapier thrusting toward his unprotected heart. He saw the man’s face, split into a mad grin of triumph and knew he had no time to block the impending attack.

A shot rang out, sending birds clattering into the sky. D’Melliuor’s look of triumph melted into brief agony, a rose of blood blooming upon his chest before he crumpled up and fell to the ground, dead.

Athos looked over to D’Artagnan, the boy’s pistol still smoking, then to Treville and François, who were wrestling Guerrero free of his weapons, the Spaniard bleeding from several deep and likely mortal wounds. There was no time to pause.

“After Jussac,” he snapped, snatching up his sword and cursing his novice error.

The tore after the man, already disappeared down the path in the direction of the Royal party.

As they came out into the open lawn Athos spied the traitor ahead of them, running, pistol drawn toward the king and his retinue. He called a warning, useless as it was, seeing the Musketeers near the King close ranks against the attacker.

Jussac shouted, his words lost from such a distance, his pistol raised toward the King. Athos saw Aramis stand as a shield before him, as two other Musketeers leapt to do the same. Then Porthos was there, snatching the barrel of the pistol in one hand and raising it up to discharge uselessly over their heads. He snarled, rage and bloodlust clearly visible even from such a distance. His free hand wrapped around Jussac’s throat, fingers digging in, crushing the windpipe for purchase as Porthos lifted Jussac bodily from the ground. The man kicked, blood spattering from his open mouth, dropping the pistol to paw feebly at Porthos’ hands. But Porthos simply increased his strength and, with a crunching of cartilage that resounded over the shrieks of the King’s noble entourage, Jussac was dead.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small chapter today and the final two by the end of the week. Thank you all so very much for your kind words and guidance. I'm glad that you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it, your words of encouragement helped this story come to be! xTx

Predictably there were no rewards for the Musketeers. When the dust had settled they found themselves once more in the King’s poor graces, Jussac’s attack having shaken their regent terribly. The fact that he had been a Red Guard before a Musketeer had made no difference, and it was only thanks to a deal of persuasion from François d’Melliuor that the regiment was not disbanded immediately for the disgrace of it all. It was from another unlikely source that salvation came: the Count Richelieu pleading their case and reminding the king as to exactly who had saved his life that day; for which, they were certain, the man would later demand some price.

For denying their king the satisfaction of seeing the main conspirators soundly maimed to death, Porthos and d’Artagnan were each fined fifty livre. At that news Aramis had promptly doffed his hat, striding about the garrison and collecting a shower of coin from their kind-hearted but not-entirely-willing brothers. What was left over once their dues had been paid was spent on an extravagance of wine and fine food for the whole regiment.

From the not-soon-to-be living traitors Gurrero and his bodyguard the Count Richelieu was provided with a host of names, soon to grace the gallows with the two conspirators. Of the Bissets nothing more was heard, save for the dismayed cries of their spurned patrons. Jussac’s head was mounted upon the wall of the Bastille, d’Melliuor spared this final disgrace in deference to his noble status. François retired from court life, accepting the shame of his son’s dishonour with dignity and a none-too small donation to the King’s estate. As for Antionne, he remained with the Musketeers, but not without some upheaval of his own.

Treville himself was reinstated with neither thanks nor apology, and promptly awarded the four Inseparables a holiday. Matters settled back swiftly into their old routines of intrigue and courtly drama, as if nothing noteworthy had ever occurred. But for the Inseparables, at least for two of them, the story had one final part left to play out.


	16. Chapter 16

Aramis sat at the table and watched d'Artagnan simmer. The boy had been cooking up a simply fascinating foul temper for the past few days that awoke no small amount of admiration within the Spaniard.

A concoction of circumstances had led to this state. First, take the tensions of the past weeks under the rule of d'Melliuor and its unsatisfactorily bloodless conclusion, secondly; add the week's holiday granted to them by Treville – in d'Artagnan's case, an enforced rest that grated on his impatient young nerves. The boy had been bouncing around Paris for the better part of five days, being belligerent to the Red Guards at every opportunity in hopes of stirring up some cathartic violence. Thirdly, and no small part of the young man's current temper, was the looming threat of unfinished business between Aramis and himself.

Aramis remembered his own trepidation when awaiting similar impending doom during his youth, and envied the boy not one bit.

Currently d'Artagnan was attempting to goad Porthos into a fistfight with a Red Guard whom he insisted had given his friend insult.

Aware of the true cause, and not yet deep enough into his cups that he could be so easily persuaded to make trouble, Porthos simply grinned and made a joke at the Guard's expense.

It was by happy chance that Athos had been called away that night; his presence always served to subdue d'Artagnan's more reckless nature at a time when the lad truly needed an excuse to be a wilful brat.

Seeing that the boy was about to continue his urging, or worse; make an attack of his own, Aramis kicked his heels from the table and rose.

"Time to take our leave, I think."

D'Artagnan, his train of thought interrupted, squinted up at the Spaniard. "What? It's barely midnight. Surely you're not already so far soused?"

Porthos snorted at the inelegant mode of attack, sinking his nose into his mug to avoid the boy's glare.

"I find the wine sour tonight," Aramis said by way of explanation. "Or perhaps it is the company."

D'Artagnan's expression turned sullen at that. "My apologies," he said completely without sincerity. "Perhaps you can find one of your many bedmates to provide you with better entertainment."

It was a silly barb, the teeth blunted, but the intention was there. Aramis, smile still in place, leant over the boy, hands resting upon his chair arms as his lips came close to d'Artagnan's ear.

"I said to you once before that I was not your whipping boy, _petit_ Gascon," he said, his voice a velvet steel whisper. "I was hoping to allow you further time to heal before we revisited that conversation but it seems it is long overdue. Now, will you walk with me, or must I carry you out?"

D'Artagnan's ear was flushed bright red. When Aramis drew back he saw that the rest of his face was a similar shade, but the eyes were hard and confrontational. He sighed and before the boy had time to think, dropped his shoulder, grasping d'Artagnan's legs and swinging him up into an over-the-shoulder carry as one would a sack of meal.

After an initial gasp of shock and horror, d'Artagnan began to bellow.

Aramis gave the inn's startled clientele a wide toothed smile as if there was nothing out of the ordinary going on, and nodded to Porthos briefly before heading to the door.

As much as the boy shouted and struggled he was powerless to stop Aramis as he carried him down the streets. Thankfully a chill rain was keeping most of the inhabitants from the streets, though a heavy dose of humiliation would not have currently gone amiss.

"By all means continue your struggles," Aramis said cheerfully, "I am certainly not troubled by a crowd, but if it is attention you seek I can give you your thrashing here and now, if you like."

D'Artagnan paused mid shout, his body tensing as his sentence was laid out.

"You wouldn't dare," he said in hushed mortification.

"Young sir, you will find me far more open to temptation than Porthos this night."

That quietened him. D'Artagnan lay still for several long moments allowing Aramis to carry him the not-short distance to his residence. Now that he lay unresisting those that passed gave them very little mind, thinking Aramis was simply escorting an over-indulged friend home to his bed.

"You… you can let me down now," d'Artagnan said quietly, "please? I promise I won't struggle."

"Do you think you deserve to be let down?"

"…No."

Aramis grinned at that admission, jostling the boy into a better position onto his aching shoulder. He was no weakling, but months of hard work and encouragement from his friends to eat well had filled out d'Artagnan's previously painfully lithe form into a soldier's heavier muscle.

Aramis waited long enough to humble the boy and then stopped.

"Can I trust you to behave yourself if I let you down?"

"Yes, Aramis," d'Artagnan said meekly.

"You will not take the opportunity to run away?"

"Of course not!"

"You will not renew your vitriol and vile, blasphemous cursing?"

"…I'm… going to regret that, aren't I?"

Aramis laughed at the lad's humble self-reproach, swinging him down to his feet and steadying him by the shoulders until his blood had settled from its pool at his head. "You have much to repent for, _petit_ Gascon, and are due a long and thorough thrashing. I would not concern yourself overmuch with the specific causes as yet."

D'Artagnan cracked a wry smile at that, his head hung in shame, but much closer to the cheery brat of his usual nature. Aramis chuckled once more and ruffled the lad's hair.

"Come, we are not far now from my lodgings."

It was far enough however to allow a good deal of agitation to build within the young penitent. By the time Aramis unlocked his front door, d'Artagnan was near to vibrating with concern. He paused on the step, however, clearly unable to bring himself to cross the threshold. A mixture of dread and confusion wracked his young face.

"I am not such a fearsome beast as all that, am I?" Aramis said from the doorway, only half in jest.

Shocked from his self-contemplation, d'Artagnan replied in the firm negative, hopping quickly past his brother into the cool room beyond. He waited, hands clenching nervously as Aramis began a fire, then mimicked the man's actions as he stripped himself of his sword and pistol.

The room was humble: a simple kitchen with a bed in the curtained alcove to one side. Aramis needed little else, preferring always to entertain any female companions in the luxury and comfort of their own homes. His lodgings were in fact barely used, but the bed was soft and it would suffice for the night's work.

"I don't believe a lecture is required," Aramis said calmly. He shucked off his gloves and laid them carefully on the table, his jerkin following. He began to roll up his shirtsleeves, each move a deliberate ploy to bring his young friend to the edge of his nerves.

"You know why it is we are here and you have certainly done your hardest to encourage a swifter response than that I had intended."

"I did not mean—" d'Artagnan began but was silenced by a raised hand.

"Let us not add lying to your list of sins, _petit_ ," Aramis shook his head. He crossed to the bed, sitting down and then fixing d'Artagnan with a stern eye. "Come, and receive what you have asked for."

D'Artagnan's face filled with colour, those words cutting the final threads that held together his temper.

"No," he snarled. "No, I shall not obey your ridiculous demands."

Aramis raised a brow. "You do not have to push me further," he said coolly, "You have earned a thorough and most memorable spanking, Charles. Further excesses of temper will not worsen your fate."

"Enough! Stop speaking to me as if I were a fool child," d'Artagnan raged, beginning to pace the small kitchen like a trapped bear. "Why must I answer to you? You are not my superior: not my mentor, nor my captain. This is an abuse of your authority."

Aramis quirked a smile at the contradiction. "Which is it? Have I authority over you or have I not?"

"I—"

"I shall enlighten you, my brother, for you seem confused upon the issue. Though we hold the same rank and take our orders as equals there is one area in which I shall always be the superior, and that is in the matter of your heart."

D'Artagnan paused, jaw clenched and working furiously, unable to deny this truth.

Aramis stayed where he was, denying the boy his chance to fight his fate.

"You have your pride, aye, and I'm sure this shall grate upon it," he said, "but again, and for the last time, I am not d'Melliuor. I shall not force you to take this punishment, not if you truly believe yourself to be without fault. If you accept the place in your heart that I hold, however, then this is the natural consequence of your submission."

D'Artagnan's eyes brimmed suddenly with tears and his shoulders slumped, chin dropping to his chest.

"I... do not wish to be spanked," he whispered wretchedly.

"Do you not?" asked Aramis. His back was straight and his eyes burning with confidence, but beneath the facade his heart hammered with fear. Had he pushed the boy so far that he could not accept this without losing too much face? What would they three do, if his bluff was called and d'Artagnan left their lives, perhaps forever?

"Do you truly not wish to face the consequences of your actions, or is it the pain which you find hard to bear?"

"Neither!" d'Artagnan blurted, his head shooting up to gaze at his brother in open mortification. "I fear neither, Aramis but...!"

"But your pride holds you back?"

D'Artagnan nodded, dropping his head so that his hair covered the first trickle of tears down his sweet, young face.

Aramis stood, taking swift strides over to the boy and once more lifting him, this time hooked under his arm. He returned to the bed, hauling d'Artagnan over his lap and simply holding him there in his gentle, steel grip.

D'Artagnan gave a token effort, kicking and writhing for a long minute before falling still.

"Better?" Aramis asked softly, one hand lifting to card through the boy's hair.

D'Artagnan stiffened briefly and then shuddered, his whole body relaxing into the man's hold.

"Yes, Aramis," he whispered hoarsely.

"You do wish for me to stop?"

The boy shook his head so vehemently that tears scattered upon the wooden floor.

"Very well, _mon_ _frère_ , then I shall begin."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all your kind words and encouragement. Though we have come to the end of this story, I'm certain this will not be the end of our Inseparable's adventures! x

The boy cried so loudly that anyone would think he were being tortured.

Aramis had been landing heavy seats on his backside for the better part of ten minutes, barely even begun with their night’s work.

A dam had clearly been breached the second Aramis’ hand fell; something, some manner of tension in the boy snapping at the first hearty whack.

“If I did not know any better I would say you are enjoying yourself,” Aramis said, having to speak quite loudly to be heard over the din.

“Ah—ah—Aramis!” d’Artagnan cried, clearly outraged by this opinion.

“Or perhaps you are seeking to embarrass me? I assure you my neighbours would think nothing of such a din, coming so clearly as it does from a naughty boy receiving a goodly dose of discipline. Really, anyone hearing you will easily guess as to the cause and not be alarmed.”

He had not thought it possible, yet d’Artagnan flushed an even deeper shade of scarlet. The boy buried his face into his crossed arms and wailed brokenly.

Despite his words, Aramis was truly perplexed by the usually stoic lad’s performance. He did not act this way when Athos thrashed him, Aramis was certain, and even the last time d’Artagnan had been over his knee the lad had been as brave as one could be under the circumstance.

“What is it, _petit_?” he asked gently, easing slightly the force of his blows, “Why, even when under Jussac’s hand you—”

D’Artagnan tensed and shuddered to a wrenching silence.

And there it was, clear as day.

“Oh _petit_ ,” Aramis whispered in full reverence, “Thank you, my brother.”

Really, the trust was near overwhelming. For the boy to so comfortably allow himself to become undone was the highest sign of respect that Aramis had ever been shown. Even his women, delightfully pliant as they often were, retained a modicum of restraint when laying with him. Here d’Artagnan was; proud, earnest young warrior, allowing Aramis to have the whole of him without reserve.

Rewarding the boy was as easy as the increase in his efforts, eager as Aramis was to show him the fullness of his love and devotion. He too was then rewarded as d’Artagnan lifted his head and _howled_.

Three times. Three times in as many weeks the lad had suffered under another’s hand without the comfort of release. Three times he had bravely, stoically held back his cries, no catharsis to be found from such a soulless, loveless beating. No hand holding him in place so that he might kick and writhe with abandon, in constant fear of reprimand and revulsion should he allow himself to feel the fullness of his pain. Silent, strictured punishment in its rawest, most evil form.

D’Artagnan threw back a hand, not to cover his glowing backside, but palm raised over his lower back, the fingers gripping empty air in a silent plea that warmed Aramis’ heart. He grasped it firmly, the thumb rubbing softly against the back of his hand as the other continued to unreservedly wallop that deserving backside.

That did quiet D’Artagnan a little, but likely only due to the growing hoarseness of his voice. Aramis was glad he had a comb of honey in his pantry and – greater miracle still – wine left from Athos’ most recent visit. The two warmed would provide relief to his brother when they were done, as would the salve Aramis had prepared that morning. Clearly he had delayed overlong in giving his brother his just reward.

“Such a good boy,” he crooned, swatting low and sweeping upward; a move that produced plenty of wicked sting without causing too much in the way of real damage. D'Artagnan's skin was blotchy with the first sign of burst vessels, soon to bruise and leave their own tell-tale ache for the boy to contemplate over the next few days. A lucky thing that he still had some days of rest remaining; any duty at the garrison would prove hideous on such tenderised skin.

Aramis paused at that. Had that been d’Artagnan’s design all along? If Aramis had waited until his indented day to carry out his promise then the boy would have been returned to his duties still raw... Wicked, clever little brat!

He relayed this opinion to his brother, along with several hearty whacks. D’Artagnan’s swiftly natural response and vehement denial seemed genuine but the suspicion was still real enough for Aramis to press the matter.

“If that was truly your intention, young man, I think you will find me equal to your deceptions – a thrashing need not be delivered in one sitting, after all. We can easily reconvene the night after next.”

“Noooooo!” d’Artagnan wailed. “Please, ‘Mis, please!”

“If I discover you are lying that shall be your fate, as well as a mouth soaping to rinse away your deception.”

“NO, Aramis!” D’Artagnan bawled, kicking his feet in furious agitation. “No! Didn’t lie. Didn’t lie! DIDN’T!”

Aramis laid down a flurry of quite heinous slaps upon the boy’s thighs. “Enough, young brat! You do your case only ill with such a display.”

D’Artagnan, knocked breathless from the assault, whined out a babble of sorries, and fell limp, his chest heaving.

“There,” Aramis soothed, “Good boy, Charles, I apologise for goading you. I know you are far too good to follow such a deception through. Even if you had, I know you would not think of dishonouring yourself so by lying to me about it.”

D’Artagnan whined. “That’s not fair, ‘Mis.”

“Is it not, little brother?”

D’Artagnan shook his head weakly, laying his cheek upon the bedspread and squinting up at Aramis with one sore, puffy eye.

“I did not mean to deceive you, Aramis, truly I did not.”

Aramis rubbed soft circles over the boy’s scorched flesh, relishing the shudder and welcome groan it elicited. “I’m sure you did not, my dear.”

“Buuuut...” D’Artagnan’s  eye darted away then back, delightfully bashful in his innocence.

“Buuuut?” Aramis mimicked fondly.

“But I did think it... something like that...”

“When, _petit_?”

“At the inn tonight, when you...” D’Artagnan paused, gulping at the memory, “when you ordered me to leave.”

Aramis broke into a smile. “Were you pleased, young one, that I would be dealing with you now, and not two days hence?”

The boy nodded miserably, honest despite his anticipated fate.

“That was not deceitful, Charles,” Aramis said, his spanking hand coming up to caress the lad’s hair. “That was simply relief from a wait overly cruel in length. I apologise for it wholeheartedly. I didn’t wish to see you hurt, so soon after your ordeal with d’Melliuor.”

D’Artagnan looked away, burying his head in his arm.

“Not the same,” he mumbled.

“No, dear boy, it is not. I am sorry it took me so long to realise that.” Aramis said with a fond smile. “Let us continue then.”

“Continueeee!?” D’Artagnan asked, aghast, his question ending in a wail as Aramis did indeed resume his assault. There was very little strength behind the blows now, but to d’Artagnan it was surely as a brand laid against his flesh.

“Of course,” Aramis said, stoically. “We have as yet not revisited the cause of this thrashing.”

D’Artagnan groaned and pressed his face into the mattress. “ _Aramis_...”

“Do you wish to tell me why we are here, _petit_ Gascon?”

“Was rude...” D’Artagnan hissed and moaned, “said horrible, untrue things.”

Aramis chuckled. “Close, _mon frère_. Do you remember your words?”

Whether he could not, or whether they pained him to greatly to revisit, d’Artagnan shook his head.

“Luckily I do,” Aramis said grimly, “and there was a part which is most prescient to our current situation. Shall I repeat it?”

“Oh no, Aramis, nooo...!”

“You said to me that we did not respect you, or regard you as an equal,” Aramis said, pausing in his blows so that his refreshed anger did not communicate itself to his brother’s hotly-thrashed bottom. “I think you can understand why this is a wholly unacceptable line of thinking?” he said after suitable pause, resuming his attention now upon the boy’s thighs.

“Yessss!” D’Artagnan wailed.

“Tell me, dear one.”

D’Artagnan huffed great gasping breaths, his body trembling with fatigue. “You do respect me,” he sobbed.

“We do.”

“You... you see me as an equal.”

“Of course.”

“You were only concerned for my welfare.”

“Quite naturally.”

“I’m sorry, ’Mis.”

“I accept your apology, _petit_. Now, let me instruct you as to what the consequence shall be, should you decide to doubt us again.”

Saying this, Aramis gripped his young friend’s hand tightly, pressing down upon his back to prevent any escape from what was to come. Ten of the hardest, most wicked swats that he could forgive himself to muster. The first drove the breath from d’Artagnan’s body, the boy gaping and choking like a landed fish; even his tears were halted by the overpowering, all-encompassing pain. Aramis knew from experience of similar proportion just how thoroughly such a method could drive out all thought, leaving one with a singularly memorable focus. He gave the lad no time to compensate for this shift in tactics, laying down one burning brand after the other with no space between them.

At the last blow he left his hand where it fell, relishing the sting as amends for his part in the boy’s suffering.

D’Artagnan was shuddering through a fit of dry-sobbing, unable to summon forth any more tears despite his wretched, heartbroken relief.

“You are our most dear and beloved friend,” Aramis said above him. “Whatever you do, whatever you say, we shall be at your side, as _equals_ , _mon frère_.”

Incapable of any form of speech, d’Artagnan simply nodded. His free hand was gripped tightly in the fabric of Aramis’ breeches, clasping and unclasping as he panted out his sadness. All the rage, the grief, the unjustness gone, cleansed in the purging fire of his brother’s absolution.

“We could not be any prouder of you; Athos, Porthos, and I,” Aramis continued, his voice a soothing balm, watching with fond delight how his words made the boy shudder, his limbs going lax as the last of the tension left him. “If we did not already know you to be the very best of us, all you have endured these past weeks has proven you possess the bravery, the spirit, the very _soul_ of a Musketeer.”

D’Artagnan clasped Aramis’ hand so tightly he feared the boy might damage himself, but then, with a deep and satisfied breath, the hand relaxed.

Aramis, content to remain where he was, guided the boy’s arm around to ease the stiffness that had likely built there, and so that d’Artagnan could pillow his head in his hands. He stroked the lad’s hair soothingly; the other hand, still hot from its night’s work, put to further good use softly massaging the knots from his shoulders.

They stayed in place for a long while, until d’Artagnan’s breathing had settled into a steady rhythm.

“My arse hurts,” d’Artagnan grumbled after a long while.

Aramis stifled a barking laugh. “I am certain it does,” he said, eyes crinkling with fondness.

“And my throat.”

The lad’s voice was, indeed, most painfully hoarse.

“I should not wonder, given your earlier antics.”

“You were thrashing me too hard.”

Aramis snorted inelegantly, rewarding the bratty comment by scooping the boy up, standing, and dumping him back down upon the bed. He ignored the spluttering curses, heading for the pantry.

“You might as well finish removing your breeches,” he called as he made his preparations. The lad had kicked them nearly the whole way off in his struggles, the material bunching about to hobble his ankles. “Your boots, too.”

“Oh? I thought I would repay your last visit to _my_ bed,” came the saucy reply.

Aramis poked his head from the pantry, giving the lad a mock glare. “Seems I neglected a spot of sass. Have a care, young one, lest I feel tempted to rectify that error.”

D’Artagnan gave an impudent roll of his eyes and made a half-hearted attempt to kick his boots free, not-quite-accidentally smearing some mud upon the bedframe.

“I shall have to write to Brother Benedict for his yard stick,” Aramis said, as if to himself. “…Perhaps for now this might do the trick?” he brandished a large wooden spoon from the pantry contemplatively.

D’Artagnan gave a yelp and quickly shuffled to the end of the bed, standing with a wince to unlace his boots. Sitting was, of course, out of the question. He made quick work of the laces, removing his boots and skipping out of both them, his breeches, and his smalls. Without needing to be told he folded the clothes, and placed them in a neat pile beside the shoes. His shirt would serve well enough as a nightgown.

Aramis gave a satisfied grunt, resuming his task. He heard d’Artagnan return to the bed, muffled hisses and groans suggesting that a comfortable position eluded the boy.

Once the honeyed wine was warmed, Aramis brought it and the salve to the bed. He smiled to see that the boy was still awake, grumpily attempting to find a restful position.

“Drink this,” he instructed, holding out the wine, watching as d’Artagnan propped himself up on his arms and obediently drank. He took the opportunity to divest himself of his breeches and boots, leaving his smalls in place – it wasn’t his arse that was hurting, after all.

When the drink was finished Aramis took the cup and set it aside, climbing into the bed and settling himself against the wall, manhandling d’Artagnan until the lad was once more draped over his lap.

“Must you?” the boy whined, face hot with embarrassment.

“I have just spent the better part of an hour in intimate acquaintance with your bottom, _petit frère_ ,” Aramis said with arch humour, “how can it still perturb you?”

“This is different.” The boy folded his arms before him, resting his forehead upon them, expression hidden from view amongst the covers and his curtain of silky hair.

Aramis gave a tolerant sigh. “Would some distraction help?”

“Like what?”

“A story, perhaps?” Aramis grinned, “One of a similar situation to this?”

“A similar… like the Burgundian Incident?”

“Or the tale of the Painted Horse,” Aramis agreed good-naturedly. Both stories held no awkwardness for him if told to someone so close, and he was certain that Athos would feel the same way. The boy had earnt that much, at least.

D’Artagnan squirmed a little. He had heard neither story and was clearly intrigued, but the subject matter was still raw upon his mind. “I think I should like to hear your tale, please, if you don’t mind,” he said eventually, still facing the covers, his ears crimson. “I would like to hear Athos tell his in person.”

Aramis took the bowl of salve, scooping a goodly portion up with his fingers and then dabbing it gently upon d’Artagnan’s scalded skin. The crease of his buttocks and thighs was the area most direly in need of attention, angry dark splotches webbing a pattern of pain over flesh. He started there, countering the flinch and muted cry with a gentle hand that stroked through the boy’s hair.

“It was perhaps a year since Athos’ joining the Musketeers, and our first mission together into the territories of Burgundy…”

It took no more than a few minutes for d’Artagnan to fall asleep. Aramis smiled and continued his story as he worked, letting the words lull the boy into peaceful dreams.


End file.
